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RSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY    OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY   OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


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OH 


RE  V  E  RIE  S 


OF 


A    BACHELOR: 


OR 


A   BOOK   OF   THE    HEART. 


Jk.  Jflcm>cl, 

AUTHOR  OF  FRESH  GLEANINGS. 


It  is  worth  the  labor — saith  Plotinus — to  consider  well  of 

Love,  whether  it  be  a  God,  or  a  divell,  or  passion  of  the  minde, 
or  partly  God,  partly  divell,  partly  passion. 

BURTON'S  A  NATOMY. 


THIRD  EDITIO 
NEW  YORK  : 

Baker  &   Bcvtbntr 

1851. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  I860,  by 

DONALD    G.    MITCHELL, 

In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 

' 


NEW    YORK: 

STEREOTYPED     BY 

c.    w.    BENEDICT: 

201    WILLIAM    ST. 


.  <£.  £.  JUteon, 

of 
^artforir,  fionnecttrttt, 

St)i0  book 

t0  ttspwtfaUg  msmbeb; 
b^  l)er  frunlr, 


• 


PREFACE. 


THIS  book  is  neither  more,  nor  less  than  it  pretends 
to  be  ;  it  is  a  collection  of  those  floating  Reveries 
which  have,  from  time  to  time,  drifted  across  my 
brain.  I  never  yet  met  with  a  bachelor  who  had  not 
his  share  of  just  such  floating  visions  ;  and  the  only 
difference  between  us  lies  in  the  fact,  that  I  have 
tossed  them  from  me  in  the  shape  of  a  Book. 

If  they  had  been  worked  over  with  more  unity  of 
design,  I  dare  say  I  might  have  made  a  respectable 
novel ;  as  it  is,  I  have  chosen  the  honester  way  of 
setting  them  down  as  they  came  seething  from  my 
thought,  with  all  their  crudities  and  contrasts,  uncov 
ered. 


vi  PREFACE. 

As  for  the  truth  that  is  in  them,  the  world  may 
believe  what  it  likes  ;  for  having  written  to  humor  the 
world,  it  would  be  hard,  if  I  should  curtail  any  of  its 
privileges  of  judgment.  I  should  think  there  was  as 
much  truth  in  them,  as  in  most  Reveries. 

The  first  story  of  the  book  has  already  had  some 
publicity  ;  and  the  criticisms  upon  it  have  amused, 
and  pleased  me.  One  honest  journalist  avows  that  it 
could  never  have  been  written  by  a  bachelor.  I 
thank  him  for  thinking  so  well  of  me  ;  and  heartily 
wish  that  his  thought  were  as  true,  as  it  is  kind. 

Yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  bachelors  are  the 
only  safe,  and  secure  observers  of  all  the  phases  of 
married  life.  The  rest  of  the  world  have  their  hob 
bies  ;  and  by  law,  as  well  as  by  immemorial  custom 
are  reckoned  unfair  witnesses  in  everything  relating 
to  their  matrimonial  affairs. 

Perhaps  I  ought  however  to  make  an  exception  in 
favor  of  spinsters,  who  like  us,  are  independent  spec 
tators,  and  possess  just  that  kind  of  indifference  to 
the  marital  state,  which  makes  them  intrepid  in  their 
observations,  and  very  desirable  for — authorities. 


TO:      ,, 


PREFACE. 


As  for  the  style  of  the  book,  I  have  nothing  to  say 
for  it,  except  to  refer  to  my  title.  These  are  not 
sermons,  nor  essays,  nor  criticisms ; — they  are  only 
Reveries.  And  if  the  reader  should  stumble  upon 
occasional  magniloquence,  or  be  worried  with  a  little 
too  much  of  sentiment,  pray,  let  him  remember, — 
that  I  am  dreaming. 

But  while  I  say  this,  in  the  hope  of  nicking  off  the 
wiry  edge  of  my  reader's  judgment,  I  shall  yet  stand 
up  boldly  for  the  general  tone,  and  character  of  the 
book.  If  there  is  bad  feeling  in  it,  or  insincerity,  or 
shallow  sentiment,  or  any  foolish  depth  of  affection 
betrayed, — I  am  responsible ;  and  the  critics  may 
expose  it  to  their  hearts'  content. 

I  have  moreover  a  kindly  feeling  for  these  Rev 
eries,  from  their  very  private  character  ;  they  consist 
mainly  of  just  such  whimseys,  and  reflections,  as  a 
great  many  brother  bachelors  are  apt  to  indulge  in, 
but  which  they  arc  too  cautious,  or  too  prudent  to  lay 
before  the  world.  As  I  have  in  this  matter,  shown  a 
frankness,  and  naivete  which  are  unusual,  I  shall  ask 
a  corresponding  frankness  in  my  reader  ;  and  I  can 
assure  him  safely  that  this  is  eminently  one  of  those 


viii  PREFACE. 

books   which    were    4  never    intended   Tor    publica 
tion.' 

In  the  hope  that  this  plain  avowal  may  quicken  the 
reader's  charity,  and  screen  me  from  cruel  judgment, 

I  remain,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

IK.  MARVEL. 
NEW  YORK,  NOV.,  1850. 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST    REVERIE. 

OVER  A  WOOD  FIRE,  ........  15 

I.  SMOKE,  SIGNIFYING  DOUBT,           "...  19 

II.  BLAZE,  SIGNIFYING  CHEER,    ....  29 

III.  ASHES,  SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION,   ...  36 

SECOND    REVERIE. 

BY  A  CITY  GRATE,  .     ........  53 


I.     SEA-COAL,         .     .  ......         61 

SO 
II    ANTHRACITE,  ....... 


x  CONTENTS. 

THIRD    REVERIE. 

OVER  HIS  CIGAR,      ....... 

I.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  COAL, 

II.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  WISP  OF  PAPER,      .  117 

III.  LIGHTED  WITH  A  MATCH,    ....  132 

FOURTH    REVERIE. 

MORNING,  NOON  AND  EVENING,      ....  149 

I.  MORNING — WHICH  is  THE  PAST,  .        .         .  157 

SCHOOL,  DAYS, 167 

THE  SEA,        ......  178 

FATHER-LAND,       .....  186 

A  ROMAN  GIRL, 195 

THE  APPENINES, 205 

ENRICA, 214 

II.  NOON WHICH    IS    THE    PRESENT,  .  .  .  223 

EARLY  FRIENDS,   .  226 

SCHOOL  REVISITED,        ....  233 

COLLEGE,       .        .        .        .        .        ,  239 

BELLA'S  PACQUET,         .        .        .        .  246 


CONTENTS.  xi 

III.  EVENING — WHICH  is  THE  FUTURE,      .         .  256 

CARRY,           .  '      .         .         .         .         .  260 

THE  LETTER,         .                 .         .        .  269 

NEW  TRAVEL, 275 

HOME,                                              .        .  287 


Jfiret    flleucrie. 


Smoke,   Jlniiic  anb 


OVER    A    WOOD    FIRE. 


I  HAVE  got  a  quiet  farmhouse  in  the  country,  a 
very  humble  place  to  be  sure,  tenanted  by  a 
worthy  enough  man,  of  the  old  New-England  stamp, 
where  I  sometimes  go  for^day  or  two  in  the  winter, 
to  look  over  the  farm-accounts,  and  to  see  how  the 
stock  is  thriving  on  the  winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the  porch,  is 
a  little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet  by  ten,  with  a  cosy 
looking  fire-place — a  heavy  oak  floor — a  couple  of 
arm  chairs  and  a  brown  table  with  carved  lions'  feet. 
Out  of  this  room  opens  a  little  cabinet,  only  big 
enough  for  a  broad  bachelor  bedstead,  where  I  sleep 
upon  feathers,  and  wake  in  the  morning,  with  my  eye 
upon  a  saucy  colored,  lithographic  print  of  some 
fancy  "  Bessy." 


16       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the  world,  of 
which  I  am  bona-Jide  owner ;  and  I  take  a  vast  deal 
of  comfort  in  treating  it  just  as  I  choose.  I  manage 
to  break  some  article  of  furniture,  almost  every  time 
I  pay  it  a  visit ;  and  if  I  cannot  open  the  window 
readily  of  a  morning,  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  I  knock 
out  a  pane  or  two  of  glass  with  my  boot.  I  lean 
against  the  walls  in  a  very  old  arm-chair  there  is  on 
the  premises,  and  scarce  ever  fail  to  worry  such  a 
hole  in  the  plastering,  as  would  set  me  down  for  a 
round  charge  for  damages  in  town,  or  make  a  prim 
housewife  fret  herself  into  a  raging  fever.  I  laugh 
out  loud  with  myself,  in  my  big  arm-chair,  when  I 
think  that  I  am  neither  afraid  of  one,  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so  hot,  as  to 
warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and  the  whole  space  be 
tween  the  jams,  roars  for  hours  together,  with  white 
flame.  To  be  sure,  the  windows  are  not  very  tight, 
between  broken  panes,  and  bad  joints,  so  that  the 
fire,  large  as  it  is,  is  by  no  means  an  extravagant 
comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile  of  oak 
and  hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth  ;  I  put  out  the 
tallow  candle  on  the  mantel,  (using  the  family  snuf 
fers,  with  one  log  broke,) — then,  drawing  my  chair 
directly  in  front  of  the  blazing  wood,  and  setting  one 
foot  on  each  of  the  old  iron  fire-dogs,  (until  they 


OVER    A    "WOOD    FIRE.  17 

grow  too  warm,)  I. dispose  myself  for  ail  evening  of 
such  sober,  and  thoughtful  quietude,  as  I  believe,  on 
my  soul,  that  very  few  of  my  fellow-men  have  the 
good  fortune  to  enjoy.- 

My  tenant  meantime,  in  the  other  room,  I  can 
hear  now  and  then, — though  there  is  a  thick  stone 
chimney,  and  broad  entry  between, — multiplying  con 
trivances  with  his  wife,  to  put  two  babies  to  sleep. 
This  occupies  them,  I  should  say,  usually  an  hour  ; 
though  my  only  measure  of  time,  (for  I  never  carry 
a  watch  into  the  country,)  is  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 
By  ten,  or  thereabouts,  my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly 
exhausted  ;  I  pile  upon  the  hot  coals  what  remains, 
and  sit  watching  how  it  kindles,  and  blazes,  and  goes 
out, — even  like  our  joys  ! — and  then,  slip  by  the  light 
of  the  embors  into  my  bed,  where  I  luxuriate  in  such 
sound,  and  healthful  slumber,  as  only  such  rattling 
window  frames,  and  country  air,  can  supply. 

But  to  return  :  the  other  evening — it  happened  to 
be  on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm-house — when  I  had 
exhausted  all  the  ordinary  rural  topics  of  thought, 
had  formed  all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to  the  income 
of  the  year ;  had  planned  a  new  wall  around  one  lot, 
and  the  clearing  up  of  another,  now  covered  with 
patriarchal  wood  ;  and  wondered  if  the  little  ricketty 
house  would  not  be  after  all  a  snug  enough  box,  to 
livv'  and  io  dL-  in  -I  !••!!  on  M.  sudden  iiit«.»  ,-ucn  an 


IS       REVER.IES    OF     A    BACHELOR. 

unprecedented  line  of  thought,  which  took  such  deep 
hold  of  my  sympathies — sometimes  even  .  starting 
'tears — that  I  determined,  the  next  day,  to  set  as 
much  of  it  as  I  could  recal,  on  paper. 

Something — it  may  have  been  the  home-looking 
blaze,  (I  am  a  bachelor  of — say  six  and  twenty,)  or 
possibly  a  plaintive  cry  of  the  baby  in  my  tenant's 
room,  had  suggested  to  me  the  thought  of — Marriage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs,  the  last  arm-full 
of  my  wood  ;  and  now,  said  I,  bracing  myself  cour 
ageously  between  the  arms  of  my  chair, — I'll  not 
flinch ; — I'll  pursue  the  thought  wherever  it  leads, 
though  it  lead  me  to  the  d — (I  am  apt  to  be  hasty,) 
— at  least — continued  I,  softening, — until  my  fire  is 
out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed  no  dis 
position  to  blaze.  It  smoked  furiously.  Smoke, 
thought  I,  always  goes  before  blaze  ;  and  so  does 
doubt  go  before  decision  :  and  my  Reverie,  from  that 
very  starting  point,  slipped  into  this  shape  : — 


I. 


S  M  0  K  E — S  IGNIFYING    DoUBT. 

A  WIFE  ?— thought  I ;— yes,  a  wife  ! 
And  why  ? 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not — why  ?  Why  not 
doubt ;  why  not  hesitate  ;  why  not  tremble  ? 

Docs  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery — a  poor  man, 
whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to  secure  the  ticket, — 
without  trembling,  hesitating,  and  doubting  ? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectability,  hia 
independence,  and  comfort,  upon  the  die  of  absorbing, 
unchanging,  relentless  marriage,  without  trembling  at 
Hii"1,  venture  ? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase  his  fancier 
over  the  wide-world,  without  lett  or  hindrance,  shut 


20       REVERIES    OF     A    BACHELOR. 

himsolf  up  to  marriage-ship,  within  four  walls  called 
Home,  that  are  to  claim  him,  his  time,  his  trouble, 
and  his  tears,  thenceforward  forever  more,  without 
doubts  thick,  and  thick-coming  as  Smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere  observer  of 
other  men's  cares,  and  business — moving  off  where 
they  made  him  sick  of  heart,  approaching  whenever 
and  wherever  they  made  him  gleeful — shall  he  now 
undertake  administration  of  just  such  cares  and  busi 
ness,  without  qualms  ?  Shall  he,  whose  whole  life  has 
been  but  a  nimble  succession  of  escapes  from  trifling 
difficulties,  now  broach  without  doubtings— -  that  Mat 
rimony,  where  if  difficulty  beset  him,  there  is  no 
escape  ?  Shall  this  brain  of  mine,  careless-working, 
never  tired  with  idleness,  feeding  on  long  vagaries, 
and  high,  gigantic  castles,  dreaming  out  beatitudes 
hour  by  hour — turn  itself  at  length  to  such  dull  task 
work,  as  thinking  out  a  livelihood  for  wife  and 
children  ? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny  dreams, 
in  which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies,  and  my  heart, 
and  lighted  my  eye  with  crystal  ?  This  very  mar 
riage,  which  a  brilliant  working  imagination  has  in 
vested  time  and  again  with  brightness,  and  delight, 
oan  serve  no  longer  as  a  mine  for  teeming  fancy  :  all, 
alas,  will  be  gone — reduced  to  the  dull  standard  of 
the  actual  !  No  more  room  for  intiepid  forays  of 


imagination — no  more  gorgeous  realm-making — all 
will  be  over  ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming  ? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after  dinner 
fancy,  idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint  for  you  ?  Can 
any  children  make  less  noise,  than  the  little  rosy- 
cheeked  ones,  who  have  no  existence,  except  in  the 
omnium  gatherum  of  your  own  brain  ?  Can  any 
housewife  be  more  unexceptionable,  than  she  who 
goes  sweeping  daintily  the  cobwebs  that  gather  in 
your  dreams  ?  Can  any  domestic  larder  be  better 
stocked,  than  the  private  larder  of  your  head  dozing 
on  a  cushioned  chair-back  at  Delmonico's  ?  Can  any 
family  purse  be  better  filled  than  the  exceeding 
plump  one,  you  dream  of,  after  reading  such  pleasant 
books  as  Munchausen,  or  Typee  ? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be — duty,  or  what-not, 
making  provocation — what  then  ?  And  I  clapped 
my  feet  hard  against  the  fire-dogs,  and  leaned  back, 
ind  turned  my  face  to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say ; 
— And  where  on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil  look 
for  a  wife  ? 

.  Somebody  says,  Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbury  I  think, 
that  u  marriages  would  be  happier  if  they  were  all 
arranged  by  the  Lord  Chancellor."  Unfortunately, 
we  have  no  Lord  Chancellor  to  make  this  commu 
tation  of  our  miscrv 


2:2  1?  E  v  i:  R  i  K  s  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a  mule's 
back,  like  Honest  Gil  Bias  of  Santillane  ;  or  shall  he 
make  application  to  some  such  intervening  provi 
dence  as  Madame  St.  Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the 
Prcsse,  manages  these  matters  to  one's  hand,  for  some 
five  per  cent,  on  the  fortunes  of  the  parties  ? 

I  have  trouted,  when  the  brook  was  so  low,  and 
the  sky  so  hot,  that  I  might  as  well  have  thrown  my 
fly  upon  the  turnpike;  and  I  have  hunted  hare  at 
noon,  and  wood-cock  in  snow-time, — never  despair 
ing,  scarce  doubting ;  but  for  a  poor  hunter  of  his 
kind,  without  traps  or  snares,  or  any  aid  of  police  or 
constabulary,  to  traverse  the  world,  where  are  swarm 
ing,  on  a  moderate  computation,  some  three  hundred 
and  odd  millions  of  unmarried  women,  for  a  single 
capture — irremediable,  unchangeable — and  yet  a  cap 
ture  which  by  strange  metonymy,  not  laid  down  in 
the  books,  is  very  apt  to  turn  captor  into  captive, 
and  make  game  of  hunter — all  this,  surely,  surely 
may  make  a  man  shrug  with  doubt ! 

Then — again, — there  are  the  plaguey  wife's-rela- 
tions.  Who  knows  how  many  third,  fourth,  or  fifth 
cousins,  will  appear  at  careless  complimentary  inter 
vals,  long  after  you  had  settled  into  the  placid  belief 
that  all  congratulatory  visits  were  at  an  end  ?  How 
many  twisted  headed  brothers  will  be  putting  in  heir 
advieo,  ns  a  friend  to  Peggy  ? 


SMOKE  —  SIGNIFYING   DOUBT.       23 

How  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to  spend  a 
month  or  two  with  their  "  dear  Peggy,"  and  want  to 
know  every  tea-time,  "  if  she  isn't  a  dear  love  of  a 
wife  :"  Then,  dear  father-in-law,  will  beg,  (taking 
dear  Peggy's  hand  in  his,)  to  give  a  little  wholesome 
counsel ;  and  will  be  very  sure  to  advise  just  the  con 
trary  of  what  you  had  determined  to  undertake.  And 
dear  mamma-in-law,  must  set  her  nose  into  Peggy's 
cupboard,  and  insist  upon  having  the  key  to  your 
own  private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of  dirty-nosed 
nephews  who  come  to  spend  the  holydays,  and  eat  up 
your  East  India  sweetmeats  ;  and  who  are  forever 
tramping  over  your  head,  or  raising  the  Old  Harry 
below,  while  you  are  busy  with  your  clients.  Last, 
and  worst,  is  some  fidgety  old  uncle,  forever  too  cold 
or  too  hot,  who  vexes  you  with  his  patronizing  airs, 
and  impudently  kisses  his  little  Peggy  ! 

That  could  be  borne,  however  :  for  perhaps 

he  has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy.  Peggy,  then, 
will  be  rich  : — (and  the  thought  made  me  rub  my 
shins,  which  were  now  getting  comfortably  warm  upon 
the  fire-dogs.)  Then,  she  will  be  forever  talking  of 
her  fortune  ;  and  pleasantly  reminding  you  on  occa 
sion  of  a  favorite  purchase, — how  lucky  that  she  had 
the  means  ;  and  dropping  hints  about  economy ;  and 
buying  very  extravagant  Paisleys. 


24         REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the  stock-list 
at  breakfast  time  ;  and  mention  quite  carelessly  to 
your  clients,  that  she  is  interested  in  such,  or  such  a 
speculation. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you  hint  to  a 
tradesman,  that  you  have  not  the  money  by  you,  for 
his  small  bill ; — in  short,  she  will  tear  the  life  out  of 
you,  making  you  pay  in  righteous  retribution  of 
annoyance,  grief,  vexation,  shame,  and  sickness  of 
heart,  for  the  superlative  folly  of  "  marrying  rich." 

But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.  Bah  !  the  thought 

made  me  stir  the  coals ;  but  there  was  still  no  blazo. 
The  paltry  earnings  you  are  able  to  wring  out  of 
clients  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  will  now  be  all  our 
income  ;  you  will  be  pestered  for  pin-money,  and 
pestered  with  your  poor  wife's-relations.  Ten  to  one, 
she  will  stickle  about  taste—"  Sir  Visto's" — and 
want  to  make  this  so  pretty,  and  that  so  charming,  if 
she  only  had  the  miDans  ;  and  is  sure  Paul  (a  kiss) 
can't  deny  his  little  Peggy  such  a  trifling  sum,  and 
all  for  the  common  benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  children  shan't 
go  a  begging  for  clothes, — and  another  pull  at  the 
purse.  Trust  a  poor  mother  to  dress  her  children  in 
finery ! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly  ; — not  noticeable  at  first ;  but 
growing  on  her,  and  (what  Is  worse)  growing  faster 


SMOKE  —  SIGNIFYING  DOUBT.       25 

on  you.  You  wonder  why  you  did'nt  see  that  vulgar 
nose  long  ago  :  and  that  lip — it  is  very  strange,  you 
think,  that  you  ever  thought  it  pretty.  And  then, — 
to  come  to  breakfast,  with  her  hair  looking  as  it  does, 
and  you,  not  so  much  as  daring  to  say — "  Peggy,  do 
brush  your  hair  !"  Her  foot  too — not  very  bad  when 
decently  chaussee. — but  now  since  she's  married,  she 
does  wear  such  infernal  slippers  !  And  yet  for  all 
this,  to  be  prigging  up  for  an  hour,  when  any  of  my 
old  chums  come  to  dine  with  me  ! 

"  Bless  your  kind  hearts  !  my  dear  fellows,"  said  I, 
thrusting  the  tongs  into  the  coals,  and  speaking  out 
loud,  as  if  my  voice  could  reach  from  Virginia  to 
paris — «  not  married  yet !" 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough.-— only  shrewish. 

No  matter  for  cold  coffee  ; — you  should  have 

been  up  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to  eat  with 
your  rolls  ! 

She  thinks  they  arc  very  good,  and  wonders 

how  you  can  set  such  an  example  to  your  children. 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you'll  not  raise  a 

storm  about  butter  a  little  turned.- — I  think  I  see 
myself— ruminated  I — sitting  meekly  at  table,  scarce 
daring  to  lift  up  my  eyes,  utterly  fagged  out  with 
some  quarrel  of  yesterday,  choking  down  detestably 


26         REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

sour  muffins,  that  my  wife  thinks  are  "  delicious" — 
slipping  in  dried  mouthfuls  of  burnt  ham  off  the  side 
of  my  fork  tines, — slipping  off  my  chair  side-ways  at 
the  end,  and  slipping  out  with  my  hat  between  rny 
knees,  to  business,  and  never  feeling  myself  a  compe 
tent,  sound-minded  man,  till  the  oak  door  is  between 
me  and  Peggy  ! 

— "  Ha,  ha, — not  yet !"  said  I ;  and  in  so  earnest  a 
tone,  that  my  dog  started  to  his  feet — cocked  his  eye 
to  have  a  good  look  into  my  face — met  my  smile  of 
triumph  with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail,  and  curled 
up  again  in  the  comer. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough,  mild 
enough,  only  she  doesn't  care  a  fig  for  you.  She  has 
married  you  because  father,  or  grandfather  thought 
the  match  eligible,  and  because  she  didn't  wish  to 
disoblige  them.  Besides,  she  didn't  positively  hate 
you,  and  thought  you  were  a  respectable  enough 
person  ; — she  has  told  you  so  repeatedly  at  dinner. 
She  wonders  you  like  to  read  poetry  ;  she  wishes  you 
would  buy  her  a  good  cook-book  ;  and  insists  upon 
your  making  your  will  at  the  birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-and-So  a  splendid  looking 
fellow,  and  wishes  you  would  trim  up  a  little,  were 
it  only  for  appearance'  sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  so  early  at 
: — she,  bless  her  dear  heart  ! — does  not  fool 


S  M  O  K  E S  IGNIFYING     DOUBT.          27 

lonely.  You  read  to  her  a  love  tale  ;  she  interrupts 
the  pathetic  parts  with  directions  to  her  seamstress. 
You  read  of  marriages  :  she  sighs,  and  asks  if  Captain 
So  and  So  has  left  town  ?  She  hates  to  be  mewed  up 
in  a  cottage,  or  between  brick  walls ;  she  does  so  love 
the  Springs  ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you  ; — at  least  she  swears 
it,  with  her  hand  on  the  Sorrows  of  "\Verter.  She 
has  pin-money  which  she  spends  for  the  Literary 
World,  and  the  Friends  in  Council.  She  is  not  bad- 
looking,  save  a  bit  too  much  of  forehead ;  nor  is  she 
sluttish,  unless  a  neglige  till  three  o'clock,  and  an  ink 
stain  on  the  fore  finger  be  sluttish  ; — but  then  she  is 
such  a  sad  blue  ! 

You  never  fancied  when  you  saw  her  buried  in  a 
three  volume  novel,  that  it  was  anything  more  than  a 
girlish  vagary;  and  when  she  quoted  Latin,  you 
thought  innocently,  that  she  had  a  capital  memory 
for  her  samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  Divine  Dante  and 
funny  Groldoni,  is  too  bad.  Your  copy  of  Tasso,  a 
treasure  print  of  1680,  is  all  bethumbed  and  dogs- 
eared,  and  spotted  with  baby  gruel.  Even  your 
Seneca — an  Elzevir — is  all  sweaty  with  handling. 
She  adores  La  Fontaine,  reads  Balzac  with  a  kind  of 
artist-scowl,  and  will  not  let  Greek  alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and   an  aching  head  at  ' 


REVERIES    OF   A    BACHELOR 

breakfast,  and  she  will  fling  you  a  scrap  of  Anthology 
— in  lieu  of  the  camphor  bottle — or  chant  the  alul 
«!«?,  of  tragic  chorus. 

The  nurse  is  getting  dinner  ;  you  are  holding 

the  baby  ;  Peggy  is  reading  Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed  out 
little  clouds  over  the  chimney  piece.  I  gave  the 
fore-stick  a  kick,  at  thought  of  Peggy,  baby,  and 
Bruyere. 

Suddenly  the  flame  flickered  bluely  athwart 

the  smoke — caught  at  a  twig  below — rolled  round  the 
mossy  oak-stick — twined  among  the  crackling  treo- 
limbs — mounted — lit  up  the  whole  body  of  smoke, 
and  blazed  out  cheerily  and  bright.  Doubt  vanished 
with  Smoke,  and  Hope  began  with  Flame. 


II. 

BLAZE  —  SIGNIFYING  CHEER. 

I  PUSHED  my  chair  back;  drew  up  another- 
stretched  out  my  feet  cosily  upon  it,  rested  my 
elbows  on  the  chair  arms,  leaned  my  head  on  one  hand 
and  looked  straight  into  the  leaping,  and  dancing 
flame, 

Love  is  a  flame — ruminated  I ;  and  (glancing 

round  the  room)  how  a  flame  brightens  up  a  man's 
habitation. 

"  Carlo,'1  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into  the  light, 
"  good  fellow,  Carlo  !"  and  I  patted  him  kindly,  and 
he  wagged  his  tail,  and  laid  his  nose  across  my  knee, 
and  looked  wistfully  up  in  rny  face ;  then  strode 
away, — turned  to  look  agaiu,  and  lay  down  to  sleeu. 


30        REVERIES    or    A    BACHELOR. 

"  Pho,  the  brute  !"  said  I,  "  it  is  not  enough  after 
all,  to  like  a  dog." 

If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the  one  your 

feet  lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside  you — closer  yet — 
were  seated  a  sweet-faced  girl,  with  a  pretty  little 
foot  lying  out  upon  the  hearth — a  bit  of  lace  running 
round  the  swelling  throat — the  hair  parted  to  a  charm 
over  a  forehead  fair  as  any  of  your  dreams  ; — and  if 
you  could  reach  an  arm  around  that  chair  back, 
without  fear  of  giving  offence,  and  suffer  your  fingers 
to  play  idly  with  those  curls  that  escape  down  the 
neck ;  and  if  you  could  clasp  with  your  other  hand 
those  little  white,  taper  fingers  of  hers,  which  lie  so 
temptingly  within  reach, — -and  so,  talk  softly  and  low 
in  presence  of  the -blaze,  while  the  hours  slip  without 
knowledge,  and  the  winter  winds  whistle  uncared 
for ; — if,  in  short,  you  were  no  bachelor,  but  the 
husband  of  some  such  sweet  image — (dream,  call  it 
rather,)  would  it  not  be  far  pleasanter  than  this  cold 
single  night-sitting — counting  the  sticks — reckoning 
the  length  of  the  blaze,  and  the  height  of  the  falling 
snow  ? 

And  if,  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries  that 
grow  on  your  fancy  at  such  an  hour,  you  could  whisper 
into  listening,  because  loving  ears — ears  not  tired  with 
listening,  because  it  is  you  who  whisper — ears  ever 
indulgent  because  eager  to  praise  ; — and  if  your 


BLAZE  —  SIGNIFYING    CHEER.      31 

darkest  fancies  were  lit  up,  not  merely  with  bright 
wood  fire,  but  with  a  ringing  laugh  of  that  sweet  face 
turned  up  in  fond  rebuke — how  far  better,  than  to  be 
waxing  black,  and  sour,  over  pestilential  humors — 
alone — your  very  dog  asleep  ! 

And  if  when  a  glowing  thought  comes  into  your 
brain,  quick  and  sudden,  you  could  tell  it  over  as  to 
a  second  self,  to  that  sweet  creature,  who  is  not 
away,  because  she  loves  to  be  there  ;  and  if  you  could 
watch  the  thought  catching  that  girlish  mind,  illuming 
that  fair  brow,  sparkling  in  those  pleasantest  of  eyes — 
how  far  better  than  to  feel  it  slumbering,  and  going 
out,  heavy,  lifeless,  and  dead,  in  your  own  selfish 
fancy.  And  if  a  generous  emotion  steals  ovet  you — 
coming,  you  know  not  whither,  would  there  not  be  a 
richer  charm  in  lavishing  it  in  caress,  or  endearing 
word,  upon  that  fondest,  and  most  dear  one,  than  in 
patting  your  glosgy  coated  dog,  or  sinking  lonely  to 
smiling  slumbers  ? 

How  would  not  benevolence  ripen  with  such  monitor 
to  task  it !  How  would  not  selfishness  grow  faint  and 
dull,  leaning  ever  to  that  second  self,  which  is  the 
loved  one  !  How  would  not  guile  shiver,  and  grow 
weak,  before  that  girl-brow,  and  eye  of  innocence  ! 
How  would  not  all  that  boyhood  prized  of  enthusiasm, 
and  quick  blood,  and  life,  renew  itself  in  such 
presence  ! 


32        REVEIIES   or    A    BACHELOR. 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  ruoved  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  shadows  the  flames  made, 
were  playing  like  fairy  forms  over  floor,  and  wall, 
and  ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought  I,  if  such 
being  were  in  attendance.  Surely,  imagination  would 
be  stronger,  and  purer,  if  it  could  have  the  playful 
fancies  of  dawning  womanhood  to  delight  it.  All  toil 
would  be  torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but  another  heart 
grew  into  this  present  soul,  quickening  it,  warming  it, 
cheering  it,  bidding  it  ever, — God  speed  ! 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a  rainbow, 
£,top  of  all  such  noisome  things,  as  we  lonely  souls 
call  trouble.  Her  smile  would  illumine  the  blackest 
.of  crowding  cares ;  and  darkness  that  now  seats  you 
despondent,  in  your  solitary  chair  for  days  together, 
weaving  bitter  fancies,  dreaming  bitter  dreams,  would 
grow  light  and  thin,  and  spread,  and  float  away, — 
chased  by  that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend — poor  fellow  ! — dies  : — never  mind, 
that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she  steals  behind 
you,  telling  you  not  to  weep — it  is  worth  ten  friends  ! 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead — buried.  The 
worms  are  busy  with  all  her  fairness.  How  it  makes 
you  think  earth  nothing  but  a  spot  to  dig  graves 
upon  ! 

— It  is  more  :  she,  sht,  says,  will  be  a  sister :  and 


BLAZE  —  SIGNIFYING     CHEER.     33 

the  waving  curls  as  she  leans  upon  your  shoulder, 
touch  your  cheek,  and  your  wet  eye  turns  to  meet 
those  other  eyes God  has  sent  his  angel,  surely  ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for.  it,  she  is  gone  !  Is  there  any 
bitterness  to  a  youth,  alone,  and  homeless,  like  this  ? 

But  you  are  not  homeless  ;  you  are  not  alone  :  she 
is  there  ; — her  tears  softening  yours,  her  smile  lighting 
yours,  her  grief  killing  yours ;  and  you  live  again,  to 
assuage  that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 

Then — those  children,  rosy,  fair-haired  ;  no,  they 
do  not  disturb  you  with  their  prattle  now — they  are 
yours  !  Toss  away  there  on  the  green-sward — never 
mind  the  hyacinths,  the  snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so 
be  any  are  there  ;  the  perfume  of  their  healthful  lips 
is  worth  all  the  flowers  of  the  world.  No  need  now 
to  gather  wild  bouquets  to  love,  and  cherish  :  flower, 
tree,  gun,  are  all  dead  things  ;  things  livelier  hold 
your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest  of  all, 
watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving,  till  your  own  heart 
grows  pained  with  tendcrest  jealousy,  and  cures  itself 
with  loving. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lecture  to  teach 
thankfulness  :  your  heart  is  full  of  it.  No  need  now, 
as  once,  of  bursting  blossoms,  of  trees  taking  leaf,  and 
greenness,  to  turn  thought  kindly,  and  thankfully  ; 
for  ever,  beside  yow,  there  is  bloom,  and  ever  beside 


34        REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR 

you  there  is  fruit, — for  which  eye,  heart,  and  soul  are 
full  of  unknown,  and  unspoken,  because  unspeakable, 
thank-offbring. 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you,  lays  you 
down — no  lonely  meanings,  and  wicked  curses  at 
careless  stepping  nurses.  The  step  is  noiseless,  and 
yet  distinct  beside  you.  The  white  curtains  are 
drawn,  or  withdrawn  by  the  magic  of  that  other  pres 
ence  ;  and  the  soft,  cool  hand  is  upon  your  brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend- watchers,  merely 
come  in  to  steal  a  word  away  from  that  outer  world 
which  is  pulling  at  their  skirts  ;  but,  ever,  the  sad, 
shaded  brow  of  her,  whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your 
sake  is  your  greatest  grief, — if  it  were  not  a  greater 

J°J- 

The  blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high,  and  the  wood 

falling  under  the  growing  heat. 

So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be  at  length 

itself; — striving  with  every  thing  gross,  even  now  as 
it  clings  to  grossness.  Love  would  make  its  strength 
native  and  progressive.  Earth's  cares  would  fly. 
Joys  would  double.  Susceptibilities  be  quickened  ; 
Love  master  self;  and  having  made  the  mastery, 
stretch  onward,  and  upward  toward  Infinitude. 

And,  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness  brought  that 
follower — Great  Follower — which  sooner  or  later  is 
sure  to  come  after,  then  the  heart,  and  the  hand  of 


BLAZE  —  SIGNIFYING    CHEER.     35 

Love,  ever  near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul,  daily 
and  hourly,  lessons  of  that  love  which  consoles,  which 
triumphs,  which  circleth  all,  and  centereth  in  all — 
Love  Infinite,  and  Divine  ! 

Kind  hands — none  but  hers — will  smooth  the  hair 
upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows  damp,  and  heavy 
on  it ;  and  her  fingers — none  but  hers — will  lie  in 
yours  as  the  wasted  flesh  stiffens,  and  hardens  for  the 
ground.  Her  tears, — you  could  feel  no  others,  if 
oceans  fell — will  warm  your  drooping  features  once 
more  to  life  ;  once  more  your  eye  lighted  in  joyous 
triumph,  kindle  in  her  smile,  and  then 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth ;  the  blaze  gave  a  last 
leap — a  flicker — then  another — caught  a  little  re 
maining  twig — blazed  up — wavered — went  out. 

Thf/re  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing  embers, 
over  which  the  white  ashes  gathered  fast.  I  was 
alone,  with  only  my  dog  for  company. 


III. 

ASHES  —  SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION. 

AFTER  all,  thought  I,  ashes  follow  blaze, 
inevitably  as  Death  follows  Life.  Misery 
treads  on  the  heels  of  Joy ;  Anguish  rides  swift  after 
Pleasure. 

"  Come  to  me  again,  Carlo,"  said  I,  to  my  dog ; 
and  I  patted  him  fondly  once  more,  but  now  only  by 
the  light  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in  fondling  brute 
favorites  ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that  when  it  passes, 
leaves  no  void.  It  is  only  a  little  alleviating  redun 
dance  in  your  solitary  heart-life,  which  if  lost,  another 
can  be  supplied. 

But  if  your  heart,  not  solitary — not  quieting  its 


ASHES  —  SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION.  37 

humors  with  mere  love  of  chase,  or  dog — not  repress 
ing  year  after  year,  its  earnest  yearnings  after  some 
thing  better,  and  more  spiritual, — has  fairly  linked 
itself  by  bonds  strong  as  life,  to  another  heart — is  the 
casting  off  easy,  then  ? 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy  cut  off, 
which  the  next  bright  sunset  will  fill  up  ? 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  doubt  under  the 
smoke,  and  cheer  under  warmth  of  the  blaze,  so  now 
it  began  under  the  faint  light  of  the  smouldering 
embers,  to  picture  heart-desolation. 

What  kind  congratulatory  letters,  hosts  of 

them,  coming  from  old  and  half-forgotten  friends,  now 
that  your  happiness  is  a  year,  or  two  years  old  ! 

"  Beautiful." 

Aye,  to  be  sure  beautiful ! 

"Rich." 

Pho,  the  dawdler  !  how  little  he  knows  of  heart- 
treasure,  who  speaks  of  wealth  to  a  man  who  loves 
his  wife,  as  a  wife  should  only  be  loved  ! 

"  Young." 

Young  indeed ;  guileless  as  infancy ;  charming 

as  the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting  :  they  bring  to  mind, 
with  new,  and  newer  freshness,  if  it  be  possible,  the 
value  of  that,  which  you  tremble  lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step — if  it  lose  not 


38          ft  E  T  E  R  I  E  S     OF     A     BACHELOR. 


its  buoyancy  ;  How  you  study  the  colour  on  that 
check,  if  it  grow  not  fainter ;  How  you  tremble  at 
the  lustre  in  those  eyes,  if  it  be  not  the  lustre  of 
Death  ;  How  you  totter  under  the  weight  of  that 
muslin  sleeve — a  phantom  weight !  How  you  fear  to 
do  it,  and  yet  press  forward,  to  note  if  that  breathing 
be  quickened,  as  you  ascend  the  home-heights,  to  look 
off  on  sunset  lighting  the  plain. 

Is  your  sleep,  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she  has 
whispered  to  you  her  fears,  and  in  the  same  breath — 
soft  as  a  sigh,  sharp  as  an  arrow — bid  you  bear  it 
bravely  ? 

Perhaps, — the  embers  were  now  glowing  fresher, 
a  little  kindling,  before  the  ashes — she  triumphs  over 
disease. 

But,  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has  come  to 
you  with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones,  and  you,  on 
hope — kindling  each  morning,  dying  slowly  each 
night, — this  could  be  borne.  Philosophy  would  bring 
home  its  stores  to  the  lone-man.  Money  is  not  in  his 
hand,  but  Knowledge  is  in  his  brain  !  and  from  that 
brain  he  draws  out  faster,  as  he  draws  slower  from  his 
pocket.  He  remembers :  and  on  remembrance  he 
can  live  for  days,  and  weeks.  The  garret,  if  a  garret 
covers  him,  is  rich  in  fancies.  The  rain  if  it  pelts, 
pelts  only  him  used  to  raiii-peltings.  And  his  dog 


A  S  H  E  S  -  S  IGNIFYING     DESOL 


crouches  not  in  dread,  but  in  companionship.  His 
crust  he  divides  with  him,  and  laughs.  He  crowns 
himself  with  glorious  memories  of  Cervantes,  though 
he  begs  :  if  he  nights  it  under  the  stars,  he  dreams 
Iicaven-sent  dreams  of  the  prisoned,  and  homeless 
Gallileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of  poor  Jonson's 
plays.  He  chants  Dryden's  odes,  and  dwells  on 
Otway's  rhyme.  He  reasons  with  Bolingbroke  or 
Diogenes,  as  the  humor  takes  him  ;  and  laughs  at  the 
world  :  for  the  world,  thank  Heaven,  has  left  him 
alone  ! 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your  palaces, 
old  princes,  —  the  world  is  mine  ! 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny,  — 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky  ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve, 
Let  health,  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I,  their  toys,  to  the  great  children,  leave, 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave  ! 

But  —  if  not  alone  ? 

If  she,  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for  consolation, 
for  home,  for  life  —  she,  reared  in  luxury  perhaps,  is 
faint  for  bread  ? 

Then,  the  iron  enters  the  soul  ;  then  the  nights 


40         REVERIES    OF    A    BACH  EL  JR. 

darken  under  any  sky  light.  Then  the  days  grow 
long,  even  in  the  solstice  of  winter. 

She  may  not  complain  ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the  strength  of  her 
love  can  dam  up  the  fountains  of  tears,  and  the  tied 
tongue  not  tell  of  bereavement  ?  Will  it  solace  you 
to  find  her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of  food  you  have 
stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  foodless  children  ? 

But  this  ill,  strong  hands,  and  Heaven's  help,  will 
put  down.  Wealth  again  ;  Flowers  again  ;  Patrimonial 
acres  again  ;  Brightness  again.  But  your  little  Bessy, 
your  favorite  child  is  pining. 

Would  to  God  !  you  say  in  agony,  that  wealth 
could  bring  fulness  again  into  that  blanched  cheek, 
or  round  those  little  thin  lips  once  more  ;  but  it 
cannot.  Thinner  and  thinner  they  grow ;  plaintive 
and  more  plaintive  her  sweet  voice. 

"  Dear  Bessy" — and  your  tones  tremble  ;  you  feel 
that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the  grave.  Can  you  pluck 
her  back  ?  Can  endearments  stay  her  ?  Business  is 
heavy,  away  from  the  loved  child  ;  home,  you  go,  to 
fondle  while  yet  time  is  left — but  this  time  you  are 
too  late.  She  is  gone.  She  cannot  hear  you :  she 
cannot  thank  you  for  the  violets  you  put  within  her 
stiff  white  hand. 

And  then — the  grassy  mound — the  cold  shadow  of 
head-stone  ! 


A  s  ii  E  s —  SIGNIFYING  DESOLATION.  41 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rattling  at  the 
window  panes,  and  whistles  dismally.  I  wipe  a  tear, 
and  in  the  interval  of  my  Reverie,  thank  God,  that 
I  am  no  such  mourner. 

But  gaiety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to  the  house 
hold.  All  is  bright  again  ;— 

the  violet  bed  's  not  sweeter 


Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full ;  her  cheek  delicate  as  a 
flower.     Her  frailty  doubles  your  love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps — frail  too — too  frail ; 
the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes  and  heart  on.  You 
have  watched  him  growing,  ever  prettier,  ever  win 
ning  more  and  more  upon  your  soul.  The  love  you 
bore  to  him  when  he  first  lisped  names — your  name 
and  hers — has  doubled  in  strength  now  that  he  asks 
innocently  to  be  taught  of  this,  or  that,  and  promises 
you  by  that  quick  curiosity  that  flashes  in  his  eye,  a 
mind  full  of  intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea,  or  flood, 
that  he  perhaps  may  have  had — which  unstrung  your 
soul  to  such  tears,  as  you  pray  Grod  may  be  spared 
ycu  again — has  endeared  the  little  fellow  to  your 
heart,  a  thousand  fold. 

And,  now  with  his  pale   sister  in  the  grave,  all 


42       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

that  love  has  come   away  from   the   mound,  where 
worms  feast,  and  centers  on  the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm  him  ! 
How  often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late  at  night,  and  lay 
your  hand  lightly  upon  the  brow,  where  the  curls 
cluster  thick,  rising  and  falling  with  the  throbbing 
temples,  and  watch,  for  minutes  together,  the  little 
lips  half  parted,  and  listen — your  ear  close  to  them 
— if  the  breathing  be  regular  and  sweet ! 

But  the  day  comes — the  night  rather — when  you 
can  catch  no  breathing. 

Aye,  put  your  hair  away, — compose  yourself — lis 
ten  again. 

No,  there  is  nothing  ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow, — damp  indeed — 
but  not  with  healthful  night-sleep  ;  it  is  not  your 
hand,  no,  do  not  deceive  yourself — it  is  your  loved 
boy's  forehead  that  is  so  cold ;  and  your  loved  boy 
will  never  speak  to  you  again — never  play  again — he 
is  dead ! 

Oh,  the  tears — the  tears  ;  what  blessed  things  are 
tears  !  Never  fear  now  to  let  them  fall  on  his  fore 
head,  or  his  lip,  lest  you  waken  him  ! — Clasp  him — 
clasp  him  harder — you  cannot  hurt,  you  cannot  wa 
ken  him  !  Lay  him  down,  gently  or  not,  it  is  the 
same  ;  he  is  stiff ;  he  is  stark  and  cold. 

But  courage  is  elastic  ;  it  is  our  pride      It  recov- 


A  S  II  E  S S  IGNIFYING     DESOLATION.    43 

ers  itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these  embers  will 
get  into  blaze  again. 

But  courage,  and  patience,  and  faith,  and  hope 
have  their  limit.  Blessed  be  the  man  who  escapes 
such  trial  as  will  determine  limit ! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near  ;  for  how  can 
trial  take  hold  where  there  is  nothing  by  which  to 
try? 

A  funeral  ?  You  reason  with  philosophy.  A 
grave  yard  ?  You  read  Hervey  and  muse  upon  the 
wall.  A  friend  dies  ?  You  sigh,  you  pat  your  dog, 
• — it  is  over.  Losses  ?  You  retrench — you  light 
your  pipe — it  is  forgotten.  Calumny  ?  You  laugh 
— you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to  you  in  love 
and  sorrow — what  then  ? 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and  coolly  blow 
the  dust  from  the  leaf-tops  ?  Can  you  crimp  your 
lip  with  Yoltaire  ?  Can  you  smoke  idly,  your  feet 
dangling  with  the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all  waving 
fancies  upon  a  church-yard  wall — a  wall  that  borders 
the  grave  of  your  boy  ? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  stinging  Mar 
tial  into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat  your  dog,  and  seeing 
him  wakeful  and  kind,  say,  "it  is  enough  ?"  Can 
you  sneer  at  calumny,  and  sit  by  your  firo  dozing  ? 

Blessed,  thought  I  a^ram,  is  the  man  who  escape* 


44        REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

sucli  trial  as  will  measure  the  limit  of  patience  and 
the  limit  of  courage  ! 

But  the  trial  comes  : — colder  and  colder  were 
growing  the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods,  is  fading. 
Not  beauty  fading ; — that,  now  that  your  heart  is 
wrapped  in  her  being,  would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning  apprehen 
sion,  and  she  tries  hard  to  make  that  step  of  hers 
elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have  centered 
your  affections.  They  are  not  now  as  when  you 
were  a  lone  man,  wide  spread  and  superficial.  They 
have  caught  from  domestic  attachments  a  finer  tone 
and  touch.  They  cannot  shoot  out  tendrils  into  bar 
ren  world-soil  and  suck  up  thence  strengthening  nu 
triment.  They  have  grown  under  the  forcing-glass 
of  home-roof,  they  will  not  now  bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if  a  heart- 
bond  was  linking  you — as  if  a  community  of  feeling 
lay  between.  There  is  a  heart-bond  that  absorbs  all 
others ;  there  is  a  community  that  monopolizes  your 
feeling.  When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  before  it 
had  grown  upon,  and  closed  around  particular  ob 
jects,  it  could  take  strength  and  cheer,  from  a  hun 
dred  connections  that  now  seem  colder  than  ice 


A  S  H  E  S S  IGNIFYING     DESOLATION.    45 

And  now  thoss  particular  objects — alas  for  you  ! — 
arc  failing. 

What  anxiety  pursues  you  !  How  you  struggle  to 
fancy — there  is  no  danger  ;  how  she  struggles  to  per 
suade  you — there  is  no  danger  ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear — the  toil  and  tur 
moil  of  the  city  !  It  was  music  when  you  were 
alone  ;  it  was  pleasant  even,  when  from  the  din  you 
were  elaborating  comforts  for  the  cherished  objects  ; 
- — when  you  had  such  sweet  escape  as  evening  drew 
on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world  careless 
while  you  are  steeped  in  care.  They  hustle  you  in 
the  street ;  they  smile  at  you  across  the  table  ;  they 
bow  carelessly  over  the  way  ;  they  do  not  know  what 
canker  is  at  your  heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the  dead 
boy's  funeral.  He  knows  your  grief;  he  is  respect 
ful.  You  bless  him  in  your  soul.  You  wish  the 
laughing  street-goers  were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he  leaves  your 
house  :  is  he  wise,  you  ask  yourself;  is  he  prudent  ? 
is  he  the  best  ?  Did  he  never  fail — is  he  never  for 
getful  ? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours,  is  it  no 
thinner — no  whiter  than  yesterday  ?  Sunny  days 
come  when  she  revives  ;  colour  comes  back  ;  she 


46          REVERIES  or  A  BACHELOR. 

breathes  freer  ;  she  picks  flowers ;  she  meets  you 
with  a  smile  :  hope  lives  again. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen.  She 
cannot  talk  even  ;  she  presses  your  hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before  your 
time.  What  matter  for  clients — who  is  to  reap  the 
rewards  ?  What  matter  for  fame — 'whose  eye  will  it 
brighten  ?  What  matter  for  riches — whose  is  the 
inheritance  ? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows;  she  is  looking 
over  a  little  picture-book  bethumbed  by  the  dear  boy 
she  has  lost.  She  hides  it  in  her  chair  ;  she  has  pity 
on  you. 

Another  day  of  revival,  when  the  spring  sun 

shines,  and  flowers  open  out  of  doors  ;  she  leans  on 
your  arm,  and  strolls  into  tho  garden  where  tho  first 
birds  are  singing.  Listen  to  thorn  with  her  ; — what 
memories  are  in  bird-songs  !  You  noed  not  shudder 
at  her  tears — they  are  tears  of  Thanksgiving.  Press 
the  hand  that  lies  light  upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too, 
thank  God,  while  yet  you  may  ! 

You  are  early  home — mid-afternoon.  Your  step 
is  not  light ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down ;  her  eyes  half  closed  ;  her 
breathing  long  and  interrupted. 


ASHES  —  SIGNIFYING   DESOLATION.  47 

She  hears  you ;  her  eye  opens ;  you  put  your 
hand  in  hers  ;  yours  trembles  ; — hers  does  not.  Her 
lips  move  ;  it  is  your  name. 

*;Be  strong",  &he  says,  "  God  will  help  you  !' 
She  presses  harder  your  hand  : — "Adieu  !" 
A  long  breath — another  ; — you  are  alone    again. 
No  tears  now  ;  poor  man  !     You  cannot  find  them  ! 

Again  home  early.  There  is  a  smell  of  var 
nish  in  your  house.  A  coffin  is  there  ;  they  have 
clothed  the  body  in  decent  grave  clothes,  and  the 
undertaker  is  screwing  down  the  lid,  slipping  round 
on  tip-toe.  Does  he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the  inscrip 
tion  upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with  his  coat  cuff. 
You  look  him  straight  in  the  eye ;  you  motion  to  the 
door  ;  you  dare  not  speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat  and  glides  out  stealthful  as  a 
cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all.  It  is  a 
nice  coffin — a  very  nice  coffin  !  Pass  your  hand  over 
it — how  smooth  ! 

Some  sprigs  of  niigriionettc  are  lying  carelessly  in 
a  little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She  loved  mignionette. 

It  is  a  good  staunch  table  tho  coffin,  rests  on  ; — 
it  is  your  table  ;  you  are  a  housekeeper — a  man  of 
family ! 


48       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Aye,  of  family  ! — keep  down  outcry,  or  the  nurse 
will  be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched  features  ;  is 
this  all  that  is  left  of  her  ?  And  where  is  your  heart 
now  ?  No,  don't  thrust  your  nails  into  your  hands, 
nor  mangle  your  lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth  together. 
If  you  could  only  weep  ! 

Another  day.  The  coffin  is  gone  out.  The 

stupid  mourners  have  wept — what  idle  tears !  She, 
with  your  crushed  heart,  has  gone  out ! 

"Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your  home 
now . 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  housekeeper 
has  made  comfortable  with  clean  hearth  and  blaze  of 
sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair  ;  there  is  another  velvet- 
cushioned  one,  over  against  yours — empty.  You 
press  your  fingers  on  your  eye-balls,  as  if  you 
would  press  out  something  that  hurt  the  brain ;  but 
you  cannot.  Your  head  leans  upon  your  hand ;  your 
eyes  rest  upon  the  flashing  blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was  sick — softly, 
lest  the  prim  housekeeper  some  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her  chair  ;  they 
have  hung  new  curtains  over  the  bed.  They  have 
removed  from  the  stand  its  phials,  and  silver  bell ; 
they  have  put  a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their  place ; 


A  S  H  E  S S  IGNIFYING     DESOLATION.     49 

the  perfume  will  not  offend  the  sick  sense  now. 
They  have  half  opened  the  window,  that  the  room  so 
long  closed  may  have  air.  It  will  not  be  too  cold. 

She  is  not  there. 

Oh,  God  ! — thou  who  dost  temper  the  wind  to 

the  shorn  lamb — be  kind  ! 

The  embers  were  dark  ;  I  stirred  them ;  there 
was  no  sign  of  life.  My  dog  was  asleep.  The  clock 
in  my  tenant's  chamber  had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes ; — how  they 
came  there  I  know  not.  I  half  ejaculated  a  prayer 
of  thanks,  that  such  desolation  had  not  yet  come  nigh 
me  5  and  a  prayer  of  hope — that  it  might  never  come. 

In  a  half  hour  more,  I  was  sleeping  soundly.  My 
reverie  was  ended. 


(Joal 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE. 


BLESSED  be  letters  !— they  are  the  monitors, 
they  are  also  the  comforters,  and  they  are  the 
only  true  heart-talkers !  Your  speech  and  their 
speeches,  are  conventional ;  they  are  moulded  by 
circumstance  ;  they  are  suggested  by  the  observation, 
remark,  and  influence  of  the  parties  to  whom  the 
speaking  is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it  may  be  over 
heard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half  through  its 
utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a  smile,  or  a  sneer.  It 
is  not  individual ;  it  is  not  integral :  it  is  social  and 
mixed, — half  of  you,  and  half  of  others. .  It  bends,  it 
sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the 
talk  of  others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 


54         REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  Letters  : — there  you  are,  with 
only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white,  virgin 
paper.  Your  soul  is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and 
saying  its  own  sayings  :  there  are  no  sneers  to  modify 
its  utterance, — no  scowl  to  scare, — nothing  is  present, 
but  you,  and  your  thought. 

Utter  it  then  freely — write  it  down — stamp  it — 
burn  it  in  the  ink  ! There  it  is,  a  true  soul-print ! 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a  letter  ! 
It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the  world.  Do  you  say, 
it  is  studied,  made  tip,  acted,  rehearsed,  contrived, 
artistic  ? 

Let  me  see  it  then  ;  let  me  run  it  over  ;  tell  me 
age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will  tell  you  if  it  be 
studied  or  real ; — if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang  put 
into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  pacquet,  not  very  large,  tied  up  with 
narrow  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  frequent 
handling,  which  far  into  some  winter's  night,  I  take 
down  from  its  nook  upon  my  shelf,  and  untie,  and 
open,  and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow,  and  such  joy, — 
such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I  am  sure  make  me  for 
weeks  after,  a  kinder,  and  holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  pacquet,  letters  in  the 
familiar  hand  of  a  mother what  gentle  admo 
nition  ; — what  tender  affection  ! — God  have  mercy  on 
him  who  outlives  the  tears  that  such  admonitions,  and 


BESIDE    A    CITY    GRATE.  55 

such  affection  call  up  to  the  eye  !  There  are  others 
in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate,  and  unformed  hand  of 
a  loved,  and  lost  sister  ; — written  when  she,  and  you 
were  full  of  glee,  and  the  best  mirth  of  youthfulness ; 
does  it  harm  you  to  recall  that  mirthfulness  ?  or  to 
trace  again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  that  scrawling 
postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its  i's  so  carefully 
dotted,  and  its  gigantic  fs  so  carefully  crossed,  by  the 
childish  hand  of  a  little  brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  pacquet  of  letters  ;  I 
almost  need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon  ;  the  old  one  is 
getting  too  short.  Not  a  few  of  these  new,  and 
cherished  letters,  a  former  Reverie*  has  brought  to 
me  ;  not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well 
done,  artfully  executed,  prettily  imagined — no  such 
thing  :  but  letters  of  sympathy — of  sympathy  which 
means  sympathy — the  nndtyl  and  the  crvv. 

It  would  be  cold,  and  dastardly  work  to  copy 
them  ;  I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  they,  the  kind  writers,  have  seen  a  heart  in  the 
Reverie — have  felt  that  it  was  real,  true.  They 
know  it  ;  a  secret  influence  has  told  it.  What 
matters  it  pray,  if  literally,  there  was  no  wife,  and  no 
dead  child,  and  no  coffin  in  the  house  ?  Is  not 

*  The  first  Reverie — Smoke,  Flame,  and  Ashes,  was 
published  some  months  previous  to  this,  in  the  Southern 
Literary  Messenger. 


56          11  E  V  E  R  I  E  S      OF      A      B-A  C  II  E  L  O  R  . 

feeling,  feeling ;  and  heart,  heart  ?  Are  not  these 
fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing  tears  to  my 
eyes,  bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living,  as  anything 
human  can  be  living  ?  What  if  they  have  no  material 
type — no  objective  form  ?  All  that  is  crude, — a 
mere  reduction  of  ideality  to  sense, — a  transformation 
of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthy, — a  levelling  of  soul  to 
matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion  ?  Is 
any  thing  about  us  more  earnest  than  that  same 
thought  and  passion  ?  Is  there  any  thing  more 
real, — more  characteristic  of  that  great  and  dim 
destiny  to  which  we  arc  born,  and  which  may  be 
written  down  in  that  terrible  word — Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will  then,  sneer  at  what  in  their 
wisdom  they  call  untruth — at  what  is  false,  because 
it  has  no  material  presence :  this  does  not  create 
falsity  ;  would  to  Heaven  that  it  did  ! 

And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth 
superadded  to  Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sympa 
thize  the  more  ?  No  ! — a  thousand  times,  no  ;  the 
heart  that  has  no  sympathy  with  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also — whatever 
its  mocking  tears,  and  gestures  may  say — to  a  coffin, 
or  a  grave  ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to  these 
cherished  letters. 


t 
BESIDE   A   CITY  GRATE,  57 


A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she  says,  shed 
a  tear — not  one,  but  many — over  the  dead  boy's 
coldness.  And  another,  who  has  not  lost,  but  who 
trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found  the  words  failing  as 
she  read,  and  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist,  spreading 
over  the  page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family  ties,  that 
make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nervously  to  careful 
reading,  until  the  husband  is  called  home,  and  the 
coffin  is  in  the  house. — "Stop!" — she  says;  and  a 
gush  of  tears  tells  the  rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — "  it  was  artfully 
done."  A  curse  on  him ! — it  was  not  art :  it  was 
nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind,  has 
seen  something  in  the  love-picture — albeit  so  weak — 
of  truth  ;  and  has  kindly  believed  that  it  must  be 
earnest.  Aye,  indeed  is  it,  fair,  and  generous  one, — • 
earnest  as  life  and  hope  !  Who  indeed  with  a  heart 
at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away  irreparably,  and 
forever  from  the  shores  of  youth — from  that  fairy  land 
which  young  enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which 
bright  dreams  hover — but  knows  it  to  be  real  ?  And 
so  such  things  will  be  real,  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and 
Death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book  in 
tears. 


58        REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 


— God  bless  them  all !  How  far  better  this,  than 
the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  or  the 
critically  contrived  approval  of  colder  friends ! 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters,  carefully, — to  be 
read  when  the  heart  is  faint,  and  sick  of  all  that  there 
is  unreal,  and  selfish  in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them 
together,  with  a  new,  and  longer  bit  of  ribbon — not 
by  a  love  knot,  that  is  too  hard — but  by  an  easy 
slipping  knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at  them  the  better. 
And  now,  they  are  all  together,  a  snug  pacquet,  and 
we  will  label  them,  not  sentimentally,  (I  pity  the  one 
who  thinks  it  !)  but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best  mean 
ing  of  the  term — SOUVENIRS  DU  COZUR. 

Thanks  to  my  first  Reverie,  which  has  added  to 
such  a  treasure  ! 

— And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields,  the 
trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me,  and  yet  they 
are  very  present.  A  letter  from  my  tenant — how 
different  from  those  other  letters ! — lies  upon  my 
table,  telling  me  what  fields  he  has  broken  up  for  the 
autumn  grain,  and  how  many  beeves  he  is  fattening, 
and  how  the  potatoes  are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From  my 
window  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded  house-tops — 
moralizing  often  upon  the  scene,  but  in  a  strain  too 
long,  and  sombre  to  be  set  down  here.  In  place  of 


BESIDE   A   CITY   GRATE.  59 

the  wide  country  chimney,  with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is  a 
snug  grate,  where  the  maid  makes  me  a  fire  in  the 
morning,  and  rekindles  it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair — a  cozily 
stuffed  office  chair — by  five  or  six  o'clock  of  the 
evening.  The  fire  has  been  newly  made,  perhaps  an 
hour  before  :  first,  the  maid  drops  a  withe  of  paper 
in  the  bottom  of  the  grate,  then  a  stick  or  two  of  pine- 
wood,  and  after  it  a  hod  of  Liverpool  coal ;  so  that  by 
the  time  I  am  seated  for  the  evening,  the  sea-coal  is 
fairly  in  a  blaze. 

"When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the  second  bar 
of  the  grate,  the  maid  replenishes  it  with  a  hod  of 
Anthracite  ;  and  I  sit  musing  and  reading,  while  the 
new  coal  warms  and  kindles — not  leaving  my  place, 
until  it  has  sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate,  which 
marks  my  bed-time. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the  hours,  which 
belong  to  you,  and  your  life,  and  not  to  the  world. 
A  watch  is  no  more  the  measure  of  your  time,  than 
of  the  time  of  your  neighbors  ;  a  church  clock  is  as 
public,  and  vulgar  as  a  church-warden.  I  would  as 
soon  think  of  hiring  the  parish  sexton  to  make  my 
bed,  as  to  regulate  my  time  by  the  parish  clock.- 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your  carpet,  or 
a  streak  of  light  on  a  slatod  roof  yonder,  or  the 
burning  of  your  fire,  are  pleasant  time-keepers, — full 


60        REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

of  presence,  full  of  companionship,  and  full  of  the 
warning — time  is  passing  ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  measured  my 
reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by  the  burning  of  a 
taper  ;  and  I  have  scratched  upon  the  handle  to  the 
little  bronze  taper-holder,  that  meaning  passage  of  the 
New  Testament, — Nv£  yag  eg^srai — the  night 
cometh  ! 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  Reverie : — it  was  a 
drizzly  evening  ;  I  had  worked  hard  during  the  day, 
and  had  drawn  my  boots — thrust  my  feet  into 
slippers — thrown  on  a  Turkish  loose  dress,  and  G-reek 
cap — souvenirs  to  me  of  other  times,  and  other 
places — and  sat  watching  the  lively,  uncertain,  yellow 
play  of  the  bituminous  flame. 


SEA-COAL. 

IT  is  like  a  flirt — mused  1 ; — lively,  uncertain, 
bright-colored,  waving  here  and  there,  melting 
the  coal  into  black  shapeless  mass,  making  foul,  sooty 
smoke,  and  pasty,  trashy  residuum  !  Yet  withal, — 
pleasantly  sparkling,  dancing,  prettily  waving,  and 
leaping  like  a  roebuck  from  point  to  point. . 

How  like  a  flirt !  And  yet  is  not  this  tossing 
caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken  my  sea-coal 
flame,  a  native  play  of  life,  and  belonging  by  nature 
to  the  play-time  of  life  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  essential 
fire-kindling  to  the  weightier  and  truer  passions — even 
as  Jenny  puts  the  soft  coal  first,  the  better  to  kindle 
the  anthracite  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  necessary  con- 


62        REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

sumption  of  young  vapors,  which  float  in  the  soul, 
and  which  is  left  thereafter  the  purer  ?  Is  there  not 
a  stage  somewhere  in  every  man's  youth,  for  just 
such  waving,  idle  heart-blaze,  which  means  nothing, 
yet  which  must  be  got  over  ? 

Lamartine  says  somewhere,  very  prettily,  that 
there  is  more  of  quick  running  sap,  and  floating 
shade  in  a  young  tree  ;  but  more  of  fire  in  the  heart 
of  a  sturdy  oak  : — II  y  a  plus  de  seve  folle  et  d"*  ombre 
flottante  dans  Ics  jeunes  plants  de  la  foret ;  il  y  a 
plus  de  feu  dans  le  vieux  caur  du  chene. 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of  expres 
sion,  dressing  up  with  his  poetry, — making  a  good 
conscience  against  the  ghost  of  some  accusing 
Graziella,  or  is  there  truth  in  the  matter  f 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether  widower 
or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such  sentiment  into  words : 
it  feeds  his  wasted  heart  with  hope  ;  it  renews  the 
exultation  of  youth  by  the  pleasantest  of  equivoca 
tion,  and  the  most  charming  of  self-confidence.  But 
after  all,  is  it  not  true  ?  Is  not  the  heart  like  new 
blossoming  field-plants,  whose  first  flowers  are  half 
formed,  one-sided  perhaps,  but  by-and-by,  in  maturity 
of  season,  putting  out  wholesome,  well-formed 
blossoms,  that  will  hold  their  leaves  long  and  bravely  ? 

Bulwer  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons,  has  counted 
first  heart-flights  mere  fancy-passages — a  dalliance 


SEA-COAL. 


with  the  breezes  of  love — which  pass,  and  leave 
healthful  heart  appetite.  Half  the  reading  world  has 
read  the  story  of  Trevanion  and  Pisistratus.  But 
Bulwer  is — -past ;  his  heart-life  is  used  up — epuise. 
Such  a  man  can  very  safely  rant  about  the  cool 
judgment  of  after  years. 

Where  does  Shakspeare  put  the  unripe  heart- 
age  r — All  of  it  before  the  ambition,  that  alone  makes 
the  hero-soul.  The  Shakspeare  man  'sighs  like  a 
furnace,'  before  he  stretches  his  arm  to  achieve  tho 
4  bauble,  reputation.' 

Yet  Shakspeare  has  meted  a  soul-love,  mature  and 
ripe,  without  any  young  furnace  sighs  to  Desdemona 
and  Othello.  Cordelia,  the  sweetest  of  his  play 
creations,  loves  without  any  of  the  mawkish  matter, 
which  makes  the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet.  And 
Florizel  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  says  to  Perdita,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  a  most  sound  heart — 

My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  wishes 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

How  is  it  with  .Hector  and  Andromache  ? — no  sea- 
coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant,  enduring,  perva 
ding  :  a  pair  of  hearts  full  of  esteem,  and  best  love, — 
good,  honest,  and  sound. 


64        REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's  presence, 
with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall  we  quote  by  this 
sparkling  blaze,  a  gem  from  the  Paradise  Lost  ?  We 
will  hum  it  to  ourselves — what  Raphael  sings  to 
Adam — a  classic  song. 

— • — Him.  serve  and  fear  ! 
Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose ;  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  Eve  ! 

And  again  : 

Love  refines 

The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges  :  hath  his  seat 

In  reason,  and  is  judicious  :  is  the  scale 

By  which  to  Heavenly  love  thou  mays't  ascend  ! 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love,  which 
belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  sea-coal  fire,  that  is  now 
dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket.  But  on  looking  about 
my  garret  chamber,  I  can  see  nothing  that  resembles 
the  archangel  Raphael,  or  *  thy  fair  Eve.' 

There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the  sea-coal 
flame,  which  with  the  most  earnest  of  my  musing,  I 
find  it  impossible  to  attach  to  that  idea  of  a  wavinir, 
sparkling  heart  which  my  fire  suggests.  A  damp 


SEA-COAL.  65 

heart  must  be  a  foul  thing  to  be  sure  !     But  whoever 
heard  of  one  ? 

Wordsworth  somewhere  in  the  Excursion,  says  : — 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

"What,  in  the  name  of  llydal  Mount,  is  a  dry 
heart  ?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of :  a  bache 
lor's  heart  must  be  somewhat  dusty,  as  he  nears  the 
sixtieth  summer  of  his  pilgrimage  ;— and  hung  over 
with  cobwebs,  in  which  sit  such  watchful  gray  old 
spiders  as  Avarice,  and  Selfishness,  forever  on  the 
look  out  for  such  bottle-green  flies  as  Lust. 

"  I  will  never"— said  I — griping  at  the  elbows 
of  my  chair, — "  live  a  bachelor  till  sixty  : — never,  so 
surely  as  there  is  hope  in  man,  or  charity  in  woman, 
or  faith  in  both  !" 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped  about  in 
playful  coruscations,  even  like  the  flame  of  the  sea- 
coal  ; — rising,  and  wrapping  round  old  and  tender 
memories,  and  images  that  were  present  to  me, — 
trying  to  cling,  and  yet  no  sooner  fastened,  than  off- 
dancing  again,  riotous  in  its  exultation— a  succession 
of  heart-sparkles,  blazing,  and  going  out ! 

— And  is  there  not — mused  I, — a  portion  of  this 


66         REVERIES  or    A    BACHELOR 

world,  forever  blazing  in  just  such  lively  sparkles  T 
waving  here  and  there  as  the  air-currents  fan  them  ? 

Take  for  instance  your  heart  of  sentiment,  and 
quick  sensibility,  a  weak,  warm-working  heart,  flying 
off  in  tangents  of  unhappy  influence,  uuguided  by 
prudence,  and  perhaps  virtue.  There  is  a  paper  by 
Mackenzie  in  the  Mirror  for  April,  1780,  which  sets 
this  untoward  sensibility  in  a  strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more  strong  and 
binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibility  becomes.  Poor 
Mackenzie  himself  must  have  suffered  thus ;  you 
cannot  read  his  books  without  feeling  it ;  your  eye, 
in  spite  of  you,  runs  over  with  his  sensitive  griefs, 
while  you  are  half-ashamed  of  his  success  at  picture- 
making.  It  is  a  terrible  inheritance  ;  and  one  that  a 
strong  man  or  woman  will  study  to  subdue :  it  is  a 
vain  sea-coal  sparkling,  which  will  count  no  good. 
The  world  is  made  of  much  hard,  flinty  substance, 
against  which  your  better,  and  holier  thoughts  will  be 
striking  fire  ; — *see  to  it,  that  the  sparks  do  not  burn 
you  ! 

But  what  a  happy,  careless  life  belongs  to  this 
Bachelorhood,  in  which  you  may  strike  out  boldly 
right  and  left  !  Your  heart  is  not  bound  to  another 
which  may  be  full  of  only  sickly  vapors  of  feeling  ; 
nor  is  it  frozen  to  a  cold,  man's  heart  under  a  silk 
boddice — knowing  nothing  of  tenderness  but  the 


S  E  A  -  0  O  A  L  .  67 

name,  to  prate  of ;  and  nothing  of  soul-confidence, 
but  clumsy  confession.  And  if  in  your  careless 
out-goings  of  feeling,  you  get  here,  only  a  little  lip 
vapidity  in  return  ;  be  sure  that  you  will  find,  else 
where,  a  true  heart  utterance.  This  last  you  will 
cherish  in  your  inner  soul — a  nucleus  for  a  new 
group  of  affections ;  and  the  other  will  pass  with  a 
whiff  of  your  cigar. 

Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck,  hurt,  who 
is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but  you  only  ?  And  have 
you  not  the  whole  skein  of  your  heart-life  in  your 
own  fingers  to  wind,  or  unwind,  in  what  shape  you 
please  ?  Shake  it  or  twine  it,  or  tangle  it,  by  the 
light  of  your  fire,  as  you  fancy  best.  He  is  a  weak 
man  who  cannot  twist  and  weave  the  threads  of  his 
feeling — however  fine,  however  tangled,  however 
strained,  or  however  strong — into  the  great  cable  of 
Purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to  his  life  of  I 
Action. 

Heading  is  a  great,  and  happy  disentangler  of  al] 
those  knotted  snarls — those  extravagant  vagaries, 
which  belong  to  a  heart  sparkling  with  sensibility  ; 
but  the  reading  must  be  cautiously  directed.  There 
is  old,  placid  Burton  when  your  soul  is  weak,  and  its 
digestion  of  life's  burners  is  bad  ;  there  is  Cowper 
when  your  spirit  runs  into  kindly,  half-sad,  religious 
musing ;  there  is  Crabbe  when  you  would  shake  off 


08       REVERIES    OF     A    BACHELOR. 

vagary,  by  a  little  handling  of  sharp  actualities. 
There  is  Voltaire,  a  homeopathic  doctor,  whom  you 
can  read  when  you  want  to  make  a  play  of  life,  and 
crack  jokes  at  Nature,  and  be  witty  with  Destiny; 
there  is  Rousseau,  when  you  want  to  lose  yourself  in 
a  mental  dream-land,  and  be  beguiled  by  the  harmony 
of  soul-music  and  soul-culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and  be 
sturdiest  among  the  battlers  for  hard,  world-success, 
and  be  forewarned  of  rocks  against  which  you  must 
surely  smite — read  Bolingbrokc  ; — run  over  the 
letters  of  Lyttleton  ;  read,  and  think  of  what  you 
read,  in  the  cracking  lines  of  Kochefoucauld.  How 
he  sums  us  up  in  his  stinging  words  ! — how  he  puts 
the  scalpel  between  the  nerves — yet  he  never  hurts  ; 
for  he  is  dissecting  dead  matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial  careless  mood,  who  is  better 
than  such  extemporizers  of  feeling  and  nature — good- 
hearted  fellows— as  Sterne  and  Fieldin°-  ? 

O 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and  Isaiah,  to 
lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches  cloud-land,  and  you 
wander  with  their  guidance,  on  swift  feet,  to  the  very 
gates  of  Heaven. 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one  struggling 
under  infirmity,  or  with  grief  or  poverty,  is  very 
dreadful.  The  soul  is  too  nicely  and  keenly  hinged 
to  be  wrenched  without  mischief.  How  it  shrinks, 


SEA-COAL.  69 

like  a  hurt  child,  from  all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh,  and 
crude !  Alas,  for  such  a  man  ! — he  will  be  buffeted, 
from  beginning  to  end  j  his  life  will  be  a  sea  of 
troubles.  The  poor  victim  of  his  own  quick  spirit 
he  wanders  with  a  great  shield  of  doubt  hung  before 
him,  so  that  none,  not  even  friends  can  sec  the  good 
ness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as  belong  to  him. 
Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon  him,  he  wrestles  with  in 
secret,  with  strong,  frenzied  struggles.  He  wraps 
his  scant  clothes  about  him  to  keep  him  from  the 
cold  ;  and  eyes  the  world,  as  if  every  creature  in  it 
was  breathing  chill  blasts  at  him,  from  every  opened 
mouth.  He  threads  the  crowded  ways  of  the  city, 
proud  in  his  griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness,  not  stopping 
to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  New  Timon,  has  painted 
in  a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like  lines,  this  feeling  in  a 
woman  : — 

Her  vengeful  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 

She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her  throne  ! 

Cold  picture  !  yet  the  heart  was  sparkling  under 
it,  like  my  sea-coal  fire  ;  lifting  and  blazing,  and 
lighting  and  falling, — but  with  no  object ;  and  only 
such  little  heat  as  begins  and  ends  within. 

Those  fine   sensibilities,  ever    active,  are  chasing 


(0          It  £  V  E  K  I  E  8     OF      A       BACHELOR. 

and  observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue  from  what  the 
dull  and  callous  pass  by  unnoticed, — because  unknown. 
They  blunder  at  the  great  variety  of  the  world's 
opinions  ;  they  see  tokens  of  belief,  where  others  see 
none.  That  delicate  organization  is  a  curse  to  a 
man  ;  and  yet  poor  fool,  he  does  not  see  where  his 
cure  lies  ;  he  wonders  at  his  griefs,  and  has  never 
reckoned  with  himself  their  source.  He  studies 
others,  without  studying  himself.  He  eats  the  leaves 
that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root  that  will 
cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse  ;  with  her,  this  delicate 
susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower,  that  quivers  at  every 
rough  blast  of  heaven  ;  her  own  delicacy  wounds  her ; 
her  highest  charm  is  perverted  to  a  curse. 

She  listens  with  fear  ;  she  reads  with  trembling ; 
she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sympathies  give  a  tone, 
like  the  harp  of  JEolus,  to  the  slightest  breath.  Her 
sensibility  lights  up,  and  quivers  and  falls,  like  the 
flame  of  a  sea-coal  fire. 

If  she  loves — (and  may  not  a  Bachelor  reason  on 
this  daintiest  of  topics) — her  love  is  a  gushing,  wavy 
flame,  lit  up  with  hope,  that  has  wily  a  little  kindling 
matter  to  light  it ;  and  this  soon  burns  out.  Yet 
intense  sensibility  will  persuade  her  that  the  flame 
still  scorches.  She  will  mistake  the  annoyance  of 
affection  unrequited  f)r  the  sting  of  a  passion,  that 


S  E  A  -  C  0  A  L  .  71 

she  fancies  still  burns.  She  does  not  look  deep 
enough  to  see  that  the  passion  is  gone,  and  the 
shocked  sensitiveness  emits  only  faint,  yellowish 
sparkles  in  its  place ;  her  high-wrought  organization 
makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veritable  flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  discretion  are 
cold  measured  terms,  which  have  no  meaning,  except 
as  they  attach  to  the  actions  of  others.  Of  her  own 
acts,  she  never  predicates  them  ;  feeling  is  much  too 
high,  to  allow  her  to  submit  to  any  such  obtrusive 
guides  of  conduct.  She  needs  disappointment  to 
teach  her  truth  ; — to  teach  that  all  is  not  gold  that 
glitters — to  teach  that  all  warmth  does  not  blaze. 
But  let  her  beware  how  she  sinks  under  any  fancied  ^ 
disappointments  :  she  who  sinks  under  real  disappoint-  j 
ment,  lacks  philosophy ;  but  she  who  sinks  under  ay 
fancied  one,  lacks  purpose.  Let  her  flee  as  the 
plague,  such  brooding  thoughts  as  she  will  love  to 
cherish  ;  let  her  spurn  dark  fancies  as  the  visitants  of 
hell  ;  let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze  of  new-kindled, 
active,  and  world-wide  emotions,  and  so  brighten  into 
steady  and  constant  flame.  Let  her  abjure  such 
poets  as  Cowper,  or  Byron,  or  even  Wordsworth  ;  and 
if  she  must  poetize,  let  her  lay  her  mind  to  such 
manly  verse  as  Pope's,  or  to  such  sound  and  ringing 
organry  as  Comus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in  the  poker  : 


72       REVERIES    OF     A    BACHELOR. 

it  started   up    on   the   instant  into  a  hundred   little 
angry  tongues  of  flame. 

— Just  so — thought  I — tha  over-sensitive  heart 
once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out  a  score  of 
flaming  passions,  darting  here,  and  darting  there, — 
half-smoke,  half-flame — love  and  hate — canker  and 
joy — wild  in  its  madness,  not  knowing  whither  its 
sparks  are  flying.  Once  break  roughly  upon  the 
affections,  or  even  the  fancied  affections  of  such  a 
soul,  and  you  breed  a  tornado  of  maddened  action — 
a  whirlwind  of  fire  that  hisses,  and  sends  out  jets  of 
wild,  impulsive  combustion,  that  make  the  bystand 
er^ — even  those  most  friendly — stand  aloof,  until  the 
storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  that  the  dashing  flame  of  my 
sea-coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt ! — mused  I  again,  recurring  to 

my  first  thought — so  lively,  yet  uncertain  ;  so  bright, 
yet  so  flickering  !  Your  true  flirt  plays  with  spar 
kles  ;  her  heart,  much  as  there  is  of  it,  spends  itself 
in  sparkles  ;  she  measures  it  to  sparkle,  and  habit 
grows  into  nature,  so  that  anon,  it  can  only  sparkle. 
How  carefully  she  cramps  it,  if  the  flames  show  too 
great  a  heat ;  how  dexterously  she  flings  its  blaze  here 
and  there  ;  how  coyly  she  subdues  it ;  how  winningly 
she  lights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpremeditated 


S  E  A  -  C  O  A  L  .  73 

darlings  of  the  soul  at  which  I  have  been  looking  ; 
sensibility  scorns  heart-curbings,  and  heart-teachings  ; 
sensibility  enquires  not — how  much  ?  but  only — 
where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul ;  well 
modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there  is  no  fineness 
in  it.  All  its  native  fineness  is  made  coarse,  by 
coarse  efforts  of  the  will.  True  feeling  is  a  rustic 
vulgarity,  the  flirt  does  not  tolerate ;  she  counts  its 
healthiest  and  most  honest  manifestation,  all  sentiment. 
Yet  she  will  play  you  off  a  pretty  string  of  sentiment, 
which  she  has  gathered  from  the  poets  ;  she  adjusts 
it  prettily  as  a  Ghobelin  weaver  adjusts  the  colors  in 
his  lapis.  She  shades  it  off  delightfully ;  there  are 
no  bold  contrasts,  but  a  most  artistic  mellow  of 
nuances. 

She  smiles  like  a  wizzard,  and  jingles  it  with  a 
laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home-bound  Ulysses 
to  the  Circean  bower.  She  has  a  cast  of  the  head, 
apt  and  artful  as  the  most  dexterous  cast  of  the  best 
trout-killing  rod.  Her  words  sparkle,  and  flow 
hurriedly,  and  with  the  prettiest  doubleness  of  meaning. 
Naturalness  she  copies,  and  she  scorns.  She  accuses 
herself  of  a  single  expression  or  regard,  which  nature 
prompts.  She  prides  herself  on  her  schooling.  She 
measures  her  wit  by  the  triumphs  of  her  art  ;  she 
chuckles  over  her  own  falsity  to  herself.  And  if  by 
4 


74  K  5  V  E  R  I  E  *    0  F     A     B  A  C  H  E  L  0  K  . 

chance  her  soul — such  germ  as  is  left  of  it — betrays 
her  into  untoward  confidence,  she  condemns  herself, 
as  if  she  had  committed  crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no  depth  of 
feeling  to  be  stirred.  The  brook  that  runs  shallow 
over  hard  pebbly  bottom  always  rustles.  She  is 
light-hearted,  because  her  heart  floats  in  sparkles — 
like  my  sea-coal  fire.  She  counts  on  marriage,  not 
as  the  great  absorbent  of  a  heartVlove,  and  life,  but 
as  a  happy,  feasible,  and  orderly  conventionality,  to 
be  played  with,  and  kept  at  distance,  and  finally  to  be 
accepted  as  a  cover  for  the  faint  and  tawdry  sparkles 
of  an  old  and  cherished  heartlessness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  because  she 
has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss  :  she  will  not  chafe  at 
indifference,  because  it  is  her  art ;  she  will  not  be 
worried  with  jealousies,  because  she  is  ignorant  of 
love.  With  no  conception  of  the  soul  in  its  strength 
and  fulness,  she  sees  no  lack  of  its  demands.  A 
thrill,  she  does  not  know  ;  a  passion,  she  cannot 
imagine  ;  joy  is  a  name ;  grief  is  another  ;  and  Life 
with  its  crowding  scenes  of  love,  and  bitterness,  is  a 
play  upon  the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says,  in  some 
thing  like  the  same  connection  : — Les  hiboux  ne 
connaissant  pas  le  ch&min  par  ou  Jes  aigles  iiont  au 
solid 


S  E  A  -  C  O  A  L  .  75 

Popr  Ned  ! — mused  I,  looking  at  the  play  of 

the  fire — was  a  victim  and  a  conqueror.  He  was  a 
man  of  a  full,  strong  nature — not  a  little  impulsive — 
with  action  too  full  of  earnestness  for  most  of  men  to 
see  its  drift.  He  had  known  little  of  what  is  called 
the  world  ;  he  was  fresh  in  feeling  and  high  of  hope ; 
he  had  been  encircled  always  by  friends  who  loved 
him,  and  who,  may  be,  flattered  him.  Scarce  had  he 
entered  upon  the  tangled  life  of  the  city,  before  he  met 
with  a  sparkling  face  and  an  airy  step,  that  stirred 
something  in  poor  Ned,  that  he  had  never  felt  before. 
"With  him,  to  feel  was  to  act.  He  was  not  one  to  be 
despised  ;  for  notwithstanding  he  wore  a  country  air, 
and  the  awkwardness  of  a  man  who  has  yet  the  Men- 
seance  of  social  life  before  him,  lie  had  the  soul,  the 
courage,  and  the  talent  of  a  strong  man.  Little 
gifted  in  the  knowledge  of  face-play,  he  easily 
mistook  those  coy  manoeuvres  of  a  sparkling  heart, 
for  something  kindred  to  his  own  true  emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man  who 
carried  a  mind  in  his  brain  ;  and  flattered  poor  Ned 
almost  into  servility.  Ned  had  no  friends  to  counsel 
him  ;  or  if  he  had  them,  his  impulses  would  have 
blinded  him.  Never  was  dodger  more  artful  at  the 
Olympic  Games  than  the  Peggy  of  Ned's  heart- 
uffection.  He  was  charmed,  beguiled,  entranced. 
When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it  off  with 


76        REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

the  prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only  bewildered  him  the 
more.  A  charming  creature  to  be  sure  ;  coy  as  a 
dove ! 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  ona  day — ho  toll 
me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting  to  his  temples,  and 
his  eye  shooting  flame — he  suffered  his  feelings  to  run 
out  in  passionate  avowal, — entreaty, — everything. 
She  gave  a  pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and  manifested — 
such  pretty  surprise  ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of  passion  ; 
and  lo,  there  was  nothing  but  the  shifting  sparkle  of 
a  sea-coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence — for  I  was  his 
senior  by  a  year  ; — "  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "  diet 
yourself;  you  can  find  greens  at  the  up -town  market ; 
eat  a  little  fish  with  your  dinner  ;  abstain  from  heat 
ing  drinks :  don't  put  too  much  butter  to  your 
cauliflower  ;  read  one  of  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermons, 
and  translate  all  the  quotations  at  sight ;  run  care 
fully  over  that  exquisite  picture  of  Geo.  Dandin  in 
your  Moliere,  and  my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you  will 
be  a  sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply  ;  but  eighteen  months 
thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three-sheeted  letter,  with  a 
dove  upon  the  seal,  telling  me  that  he  was  as  happy 
as  a  king :  he  said  he  had  married  a  good-hearted, 
domestic,  loving  wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a,  June 


S  K  A  -  C  O  A  L  .  77 

day,  and  that  their  baby,  not  three  months  old,  was 
as  bright  as  a  spot  of  June  day  sunshine  on  the  grass. 

— What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife — mused  I — 
such  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must  in  the  end  make ; — 
the  prostitute  of  fashion  ;  the  bauble  of  fifty  hearts 
idle  as  hers  ;  the  shifting  make-piece  of  a  stage  scene  ; 
the  actress,  now  in  peasant,  and  now  in  princely 
petticoats  !  How  it  would  cheer  an  honest  soul  to 
call  her — his  !  What  a  culmination  of  his  heart-life  ; 
what  a  rich  dream-land  to  be  realized ! 

Bah  !  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the  clotted 

mass  of  fading  coal — just  such,  and  so  worthless  is  the 
used  heart  of  a  city  flirt ;  just  so  the  incessant  sparkle 
of  her  life,  and  frittering  passions,  fuses  all  that  is 
sound  and  combustible,  into  black,  sooty,  shapeless 
residuum. 

When  I  marry  a  flirt,  I  will  buy  second-hand 
clothes  of  the  Jews. 

— Still — mused  I — as  the  flame  danced  again — 
there  is  a  distinction  between  coquetry  and  flirtation. 

A  coquette  sparkles,  but  it  is  more  the  sparkle  of  a 
harmless  and  pretty  vanity,  than  of  calculation.  It, 
is  the  play  of  humors  in  the  blood,  and  not  the  play 
of  purpose  at  the  heart.  It  will  flicker  around  a  true 
soul  like  the  blaze  around  an  omelette  au  rhum,  leav 
ing  the  kernel  sounder  and'  warmer. 


78        REVERIE,*    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teasings,  makes 
the  spice  to  your  dinner — thy  mulled  wine  to  your 
supper.  It  will  drive  you  to  desperation,  only  tu 
bring  you  back  hotter  to  the  fray.  Who  would 
boast  a  victory  that  cost  no  strategy,  and  no  careful 
disposition  of  the  forces  ?  Who  would  bulletin  such 
success  as  my  Uncle  Toby's,  in  a  back-garden,  with 
only  the  Corporal  Trim  for  assailant  ?  But  let  a  man 
be  very  sure  that  the  city  is  worth  the  siege  ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite  ;  flirtation  depraves 
it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards  the  rose — 
easily  trimmed  off  when  once  plucked.  Flirtation  is 
like  the  slime  on  water-plants,  making  them  hard  to 
handle,  and  when  caught,  only  to  be  cherished  in 
slimy  waters. 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flickering 
blaze,  I  see  in  my  reverie,  a  bright  one  dancing  before 
me,  with  sparkling,  coquettish  smile,  teasing  me  with 
the  prettiest  graces  in  the  world ; — and  I  grow 
maddened  between  hope  and  fear,  and  still  watch  with 
my  whole  soul  in  my  eyes  j  and  see  her  features  by 
and  by  relax  to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensibility  comes 
stealing  over  her  spirit ; — and  then  to  a  kindly,  feeling 
regard  :  presently  she  approaches, — a  coy  and  doubt 
ful  approach — and  throws  back  the  ringlets  that  lie 
over  her  cheek,  and  lays  her  hand— a  little  bit  of 
white  hand — timidly  upon  my  strong  fingers, — and 


SEA-COAL.  79 

turns  her  head  daintily  to  one  side, — and  looks  up  in 
my  eyes,  as  they  rest  on  the  playing  blaze  ;  and  my 
fingers  close  fast  and  passionately  over  that  little 
hancjf  like  a  swift  night-cloud  shrouding  the  pale  tips 
of  Dian^r—and  my  eyes  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to 
those  blue,  laughing,  pitying,  teasing  eyes,  and  my 
arm  clasps  round  that  shadowy  form, — and  my  lipa 

feel  a  warm  breath — growing  warmer  and  warmer 

Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  and  throws  upon  the 
fire  a  pan-ful  of  Anthracite,  and  my  sparkling  sea- 
coal  reverie  is  ended. 


II. 

ANTHRACITE. 

IT  does  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the  blower. 
Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier  de  Maistre* 
would  have  made,  I  dare  say,  a  pretty  epilogue  about 
a  sheet-iron  blower  ;  but  I  cannot. 

.1  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  belonged  to  the 
lingering  bituminous  flame,  but  with  my  eyes  on  that 
dark  blower, — -how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which  drops  down 
before  our  brightest  dreams.  How  often  the  phan 
toms  of  joy  regale  us,  and  dance  before  us — golden- 
winged,  angel-faced,  heart-warming,  and  make  an 
Elysium  in  which  the  dreaming  soul  bathes,  and  feels 
translated  to  another  existence  ;  and  then — sudden  as 


Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambie. 


ANTHRACITE.  81 

night,  or  a  cloud — a  word,  a  step,  a  thought,  a  mem 
ory  will  chase  them  away,  liko  scared  deer  vanishing 
over  a  gray  horizon  of  moor-land  ! 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  bo  a  weakness  or  a  sin  to 
create  these  phantoms  that  we  love,  and  to  group  them 
into  a  paradise — soul-created.  But  if  it  is  a  sin,  it  is 
a  sweet  and  enchanting  sin  ;  and  if  it  is  a  weakness, 
it  is  a  strong  and  stirring  weakness.  If  this  heart  is 
sick  of  the  falsities  that  meet  it  at  every  hand,  and  is 
eager  to  spend  that  power  which  nature  has  ribbed  it 
with,  on  some  object  worthy  of  its  fulness  and  depth, — 
shall  it  not  feel  a  rich  relief, — nay  more,  an  exercisj 
in  keeping  with  its  end,  if  it  flow  out — strong  as  a 
tempest,  wild  as  a  rushing  river,  upon  those  ideal 
creations,  which  imagination  invents,  and  which  are 
tempered  by  our  best  sense  of  beauty,  purity,  and 
grace  ? 

Useless,  do  you  say  ?  Aye,  it  is  as  useless  as 

the  pleasure  of  looking  hour  upon  hour,  over  bright 
landscapes  ;  it  is  as  useless  as  the  rapt  enjoyment  of 
listening  with  heart  full  and  eyes  brimming,  to  such 
music  as  the  Miserere  at  Rome  ;  it  is  as  useless  as  the 
ecstacy  of  kindling  your  soul  into  fervor  and  love,  and 
madness,  over  pages  that  reek  with  genius. 

There  are  indeed  base-moulded  souls  who  know 
nothing  of  this  ;  they  laugh  ;  they  sneer  ;  they  even 
affect  to  pity.  Just  so  the  Huns  under  the  avenging 


S2  It  E  V  E  R  I  E  S    O  F     A      BACHELOR', 

Attila,  who  had  been  used  to  foul  cookery  and  steaks 
r>iewed  under  their  saddles,  laughed  brutally  at  the 
spiced  banquets  of  an  Apicius  ! 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin ;  or  if  it 

be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so  earnest,  that  it 
can  cry  to  Heaven  cheerily,  and  sure  of  a  gracious 
hearing — fcccavi — ?nisericorde  ! 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow,  throwing 
a  tranquil,  steady  light  to  the  farthest  corner  of  my 
garret.  How  unlike  it  is,  to  the  flashing  play  of  the 
sea-coal ! — unlike  as  an  unsteady,  uncertain-working 
heart  to  the  true  and  earnest  constancy  of  one  cheerful 
and  right. 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart ;  not  bent 
on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp  with  sensibility, 
not  throwing  out  coquettish  jets  of  flame,  not  waver 
ing,  and  meaningless  with  pretended  warmth,  but 
open,  glowing  and  strong.  Its  dark  shades  and  angles 
it  may  have  ;  for  what  is  a  soul  worth  that  does  not 
take  a  slaty  tinge  from  those  griefs  that  chill  the 
blood  ?  Yet  still  the  fire  is  gleaming  ;  you  see  it  in 
the  crevices  ;  and  anon  it  will  give  radiance  to  the 
whole  mass. 

It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire  ;  and  I  draw  up  a 

screen  painted  over  with  rough,  but  graceful  figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of  modesty — 
(not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy,  iron,  repulsive 


A  NTHRACITE.  S3 

screen.)  It  will  not  allow  itself  to  be  looked  on  too 
near — it  might  scorch  ;  but  through  the  veil  you  feel 
the  warmth  ;  and  through  the  pretty  figures  that 
modesty  will  robe  itself  in,  you  can  see  all  the  while 
the  golden  outlines,  and  by  that  token,  you  know  that 
it  is  glowing  and  burning  with  a  pure  and  steady 
flame. 

With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  naturally — a 
holy  and  heated  fusion  ;  they  work  together  like 
twins-born.  With  such  a  heart,  as  Raphael  says  to 
Adam, 

Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious. 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from  your  clay- 
cold,  luke-warm,  half-hearted  soul  ; — considerate, 
because  ignorant ;  judicious,  because  possessed  of  no 
latent  fires  that  need  a  curb  ;  prudish,  because  with 
no  warm  blood  to  tempt.  This  sort  of  soul  may  pass 
scatheless  through  the  fiery  furnace  of  life  ;  strong, 
only  in  its  weakness  ;  pure,  because  of  its  failings  ; 
and  good,  only  by  negation.  It  may  triumph  over 
love,  and  sin,  and  death ;  but  it  will  be  a  triumph  of 
the  beast,  which  has  neither  passions  to  subdue,  or 
energy  to  attack,  or  hope  to  quench. 


84 "  * "  R'E  v  E  n  i  E  s   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  earnest  heart, 
glowing  like  my  anthracite  coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now  : — the  eye  is  deep 
and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit ;  it  is  not  the  trading 
eye,  weighing  your  purse  ;  it  is  not  the  worldly  eye, 
weighing  position  ;  it  is  not  the  beastly  eye,  weigh 
ing  your  appearance  ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye,  weighing 
your  soul ! 

It  is  full  of  deep,  tender,  and  earnest  feeling.  It 
is  an  eye,  which  looked  on  once,  you  long  to  look  on 
again  ;  it  is  an  eye  which  will  haunt  your  dreams, — 
an  eye  which  will  give  a  colour,  in  spite  of  you,  to  all 
your  reveries.  It  is  an  eye  which  lies  before  you  in 
your  future,  like  a  star  in  the  mariner's  heaven ;  by 
it,  unconsciously,  and  from  fore 2  of  deep  soul-habit, 
you  take  all  your  observations.  It  is  meek  and  quiet ; 
but  it  is  full,  as  a  spring  that  gushes  in  flood ;  an 
Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury — a  Vauclause  and  a  Cli- 
tumnus  ! 

The  face  is  an  angel  face  ;  no  matter  for  curious 
lines  of  beauty  ;  no  matter  for  popular  talk  of  pretti- 
ness  ;  no  matter  for  its  angles,  or  its  proportions  ; 
no  matter  for  its  colour  or  its  form — the  soul  is  there, 
illuminating  every  feature,  burnishing  every  point, 
hallowing  every  surface.  It  tells  of  honesty,  sincerity 
and  worth  ;  it  tells  of  truth  and  virtue ; — and  you 


ANTHRACITE. 


clasp  the  image  to  your  heart,  as  the  received  ideal 
of  your  fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that,  it  may  be  tall  or 
short,  it  matters  nothing, — the  heart  is  there.  The 
talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  serious  or  piquant — -a  free 
and  honest  soul  is  warming  and  softening  it  all.  As 
you  speak,  it  speaks  back  again  ;  as  you  think,  it 
thinks  a<min — (not  in  conjunction,  but  in  the  same 
sign  of  the  Zodiac  ;)  as  you  love  it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy  is  the 

man  who  can  claim  such  !  The  warmth  that  lies  in 
it  is  not  only  gonsrous,  but  religious,  genial,  devo 
tional,  tender,  self-sacrificing,  and  looking  heaven 
ward. 

A  man  without   some  sort  of  religion,  is  at  best  a\ 
poor  reprobate,  the  foot-ball  of  destiny,  with  no  tie    \ 
linking  him  to   infinity,  and    the    wondrous  eternity 
that  is  begun  with  him  ;  but  a  woman  without  it,  is     I 
oven  worse — a  flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow  without  / 
colour,  a  flower  without  perfume  ! 

A  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail  hopes  and 
honors,  with  weak,  shifting  ground-tackle  to  business, 
or  to  the  world ;  but  a  woman  without  that  anchor  which 
they  call  Faith,  is  adrift,  and  a-wreck  !  A  man  may 
clumsily  contrive  a  kind  of  moral  responsibility,  out 
of  his  relations  to  mankind  ;  but  a  woman  in  her 
comparatively  isolated  sphere,  where  affection  and  not 


86  R  EYERIES     OF     A      13  A  C  II  E  L  0  U  . 

purpose  is  the  controlling  motive,  can  find  no  basis 
for  any  system  of  right  action,  but  that  of  spiritual 
faith.  A  man  may  crazo  his  thought,  and  his  brain, 
to  trustfulness  in  such  poor  harborage  as  Fame  and 
Reputation  may  stretch  before  him  ;  but  a  woman — 
where  can  she  put  her  hope  in  storms,  if  not  in 
Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness — that  abiding  love — 
that  enduring  hope,  mellowing  every  page  and  scene 
of  life,  lighting  them  with  pleasantest  radiance,  when 
the  world-storms  break  like  an  army  with  smoking 
cannon — what  can  bestow  it  all,  but  a  holy  soul-tie  to 
what  is  above  the  storms,  and  to  what  is  stronger 
than  an  army  with  cannon  ?  Who  that  has  enjoyed 
the  counsel  and  the  love  of  a  Christian  mother,  but 
will  echo  the  thought  with  energy,  and  hallow  it  with 
a  tear  ? et  moi,  je  pleurs  ! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal.  The  whole 
atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm.  The  heart  that 
with  its  glow  can  light  up,  and  warm  a  garret  with 
loose  casements  and  shattered  roof,  is  capable  of  the 
best  love — domestic  love.  I  draw  farther  off,  and  the 
images  upon  the  screen  change.  The  warmth,  the 
hour,  the  quiet,  create  a  home  feeling ;  and  that  feel 
ing,  quick  as  lightning,  has  stolen  from  the  world  of 
fane}'  (a  Promethean  theft,)  a  home  object,  about 


A  N  T  II  R  A  C  I  T  E  .  87 

which  my  musings  go  on  to  drape  themselves  in  lux 
urious  reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the  fire,  in  a 

neat  home  dress,  of  sober,  yet  most  adorning  colour. 
A  little  bit  of  lace  ruffle  is  gathered  about  the  neck, 
by  a  blue  ribbon  ;  and  the  ends  of  the  ribbon  are 
crossed  under  the  dimpling  chin,  and  are  fastened 
neatly  by  a  simple,  unpretending  brooch — your  gift. 
The  arm,  a  pretty  taper  arm,  lies  over  the  carved 
elbow  of  the  oaken  chair;  the  hand,  white  and  deli 
cate,  sustains  a  little  home  volume  that  hangs  from 
her  fingers.  The  forefinger  is  between  the  leaves, 
and  the  others  lie  in  relief  upon  the  dark  embossed 
cover.  She  repeats  in  a  silver  voice,  a  line  that  has 
attracted  her  fancy  ;  and  you  listen — or  at  any  rate, 
you  seem  to  listen — with  your  eyes  now  on  the  lips, 
now  on  the  forehead,  and  now  on  the  finger,  where 
glitters  like  a  star,  the  marriage  ring — little  gold 
band,  at  which  she  does  not  chafe,  that  tells  you, — 
she  is  yours  ! 

Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that  told 

it  !  The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the  heart,  tells 
you  stronger  and  better,  that  she  is  yours.  And  a 
feeling  within,  where  it  lies  you  know  not,  and 
whence  it  comes  you  know  not,  but  sweeping  over 
heart  and  brain,  like  a  fire-flood,  tells  you  too,  that 


88        REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

you  are  hers !     Irremediably  bound  as  Massinger's 
Hortensio : 

I  am  subject  to  another's  will,  and  can 
Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her ! 

The  fire  is  warm  as  ever ;  what  length  of  heat  in 
this  hard  burning  anthracite  !  It  has  scarce  sunk  yet 
to  the  second  bar  of  the  grate,  though  the  clock  upon 
the  church-tower  has  tolled  eleven. 

— Aye, — mused  I,  gaily — such  heart  does  not 
grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself  in  idle  puffs  of 
blaze,  it  does  not  become  chilly  with  the  passing 
years  ;  but  it  gains  and  grows  in  strength,  and  heat, 
until  the  fire  of  life,  is  covered  over  with  the  ashes  of 
death.  Strong  or  hot  as  it  may  be  at  the  first,  it 
loses  nothing.  It  may  not  indeed,  as  time  advances, 
throw  out,  like  the  coal-fire,  when  new-lit,  jets  of 
blue  sparkling  flame  ;  it  may  not  continue  to  bubble, 
and  gush  like  a  fountain  at  its  source,  but  it  will  be 
come  a  strong  river  of  flowing  charities. 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan  moun 
tains,  almost  a  flood ;  on  a  glorious  spring  day  I 
leaned  down  and  tasted  the  water,  as  it  boiled  from 
its  sources  ;— the  little  temple  of  white  marble, — the 
mountain  sides  gray  with  olive  orchards, — the  white 
streak  of  road, — the  tall  poplars  of  the  river  margin 


ANTHRACITE.  89 

were  glistening  in  the  bright  Italian  sunlight,  around 
me.  Later,  I  saw  it  when  it  had  become  a  river, — 
still  clear  and  strong,  flowing  serenely  between  its 
prairie  banks,  on  which  the  white  cattle  of  the  valley 
browsed ;  and  still  farther  down,  I  welcomed  it, 
where  it  joins  the  Arno, — flowing  slowly  under 
wooded  shores,  skirting  the  fair  Florence,  and  the 
bounteous  fields  of  the  bright  Cascino  ; — gathering 
strength  and  volume,  till  between  Pisa  and  Leghorn, 
— in  sight  of  the  wondrous  Leaning  Tower,  and  the 
ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan  port,  it  gave  its  waters  to 
its  life's  grave — the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now  with  my 
musings,  over  my  garret  grate,  and  offered  a  flowing 
image,  to  bear  along  upon  its  bosom  the  affections 
that  were  grouping  in  my  Reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of  the  fancy, 
that  can  set  the  objects  which  are  closest  to  the  heart 
far  down  the  lapse  of  time.  Even  now,  as  the  fire 
fades  slightly,  and  sinks  slowly  towards  the  bar,  which 
is  the  dial  of  my  hours,  I  seem  to  see  that  image  of 
love  which  has  played  about  the  fire -glow  of  my  prrate 
— years  hence.  It  still  covers  the  same  warm,  trust 
ful,  religious  heart.  Trials  have  tried  it ;  afflictions 
have  weighed  upon  it ;  danger  has  scared  it ;  and 
death  is  coming  near  to  subdue  it ;  but  still  it  is  the 
same. 


90        REVERIES       F    A    BACHELOR. 

The  fingers  are  thinner  ;  the  face  has  lines  of  care, 
and  sorrow,  crossing  each  other  in  a  web-work,  that 
makes  the  golden  tissue  of  humanity.  But  the  heart 
is  fond,  and  steady ;  it  is  the  same  dear  heart,  the 
same  self-sacrificing  heart,  warming,  like  a  fire,  all 
around  it.  Affliction  has  tempered  joy  ;  and  joy 
adorned  affliction.  Life  and  all  its  troubles  have  be 
come  distilled  into  an  holy  incense,  rising  ever  from 
your  fireside, — an  offering  to  your  household  gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift  determina 
tion,  your  impulsive  pride,  your  deep  uttered  vows  to 
win  a  name,  have  all  sobered  into  affection — have  all 
blended  into  that  glow  of  feeling,  which  finds  its  cen 
tre,  and  hope,  and  joy  in  HOME  From  my  soul  I 
pity  him  whose  soul  does  not  leap  at  the  mere  utter 
ance  of  that  name. 

A  home  ! — it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  adorable  phan 
tom  which  sits  highest  on  the  sunny  horizon  that 
girdeth  Life  !  When  shall  it  be  reached  ?  When 
shall  it  cease  to  be  a  glittering  day-dream,  and  be 
come  fully  and  fairly  yours  ? 

It  is  not  the  house,  though  that  may  have  its 
charms  ;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled,  and  streaked 
with  your  own  foot-paths ; — nor  the  trees,  though 
their  shadow  be  to  you  like  that  of  a  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land ; — nor  yet  is  it  the  fireside,  with  its  sweet 
blaze-play ; — nor  the  pictures  which  tell  of  loved 


AN  T  H  II  A  CI  TE  .  91 

ones  ,  nor  the  cherished  books, — but  more  far  than  all 
these — it  is  the  PRESENCE.  The  Lares  of  your  wor 
ship  are  there  ;  the  altar  of  your  confidence  there  ; 
the  end  of  your  worldly  faith  is  there  ;  and  adorning 
it  all,  and  sending  your  blood  in  passionate  flow,  is 
the  ecstasy  of  the  conviction,  that  there  at  least  you 
are  beloved ;  that  there  you  are  understood ;  that 
there  your  errors  will  meet  ever  with  gentlest  forgive 
ness  ;  that  there  your  troubles  will  be  smiled  away ; 
that  there  you  may  unburden  your  soul,  fearless  of 
harsh,  unsympathizing  ears  ;  and  that  there  you  may 
be  entirely  and  joyfully — yourself ! 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mould — and  I  have 
seen  such  even  in  the  disguise  of  women — who  will 
reckon  these  feelings  puling  sentiment.  God  pity 
them  ! — as  they  have  need  of  pity. 

That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  loving,  joyful, 

is  there  still :  it  goes  not,  however  my  spirit  tosses, 
because  my  wish,  and  every  will,  keep  it  there, 
unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yellow  and 
warm,  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its  best  age,  and 
that  age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart ! — now  I  know  what  Wordsworth 
meant,  when  he  said, 


92       REVERIE  s   o  F     A    B  A  c  u  E  L  o  K  . 

The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

The  town  clock  is  striking  midnight.  The  cold  of 
the  night-wind  is  urging  its  way  in  at  the  door  and  win 
dow-crevice  ;  the  fire  has  sunk  almost  to  the  third 
bar  of  the  grate.  Still  my  dream  tires  not,  but 
wraps  fondly  round  that  inja»3, — now  in  the  far  off, 
chilling  mists  of  age,  growing  sainted.  Love  has 
blended  into  reverence  ;  passion  has  subsided  into 
joyous  content. 

And  what  if  age  comes,  said  I,  in  a  new  flush 

of  excitation, — what  else  proves  the  wine  ?  What 
else  gives  inner  strength,  and  knowledge,  and  a 
steady  pilot-hand,  to  steer  your  boat  out  boldly  upon 
that  shoreless  sea,  where  the  river  of  life  is  running  ? 
Let  the  white  ashes  gather ;  let  the  silver  hair  lie, 
where  lay  the  auburn ;  let  the  eye  gleam  farther 
back,  and  dimmer  ;  it  is  but  retreating  toward  the 
pure  sky-depths,  an  usher  to  the  land  where  you  will 
follow  after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the  screen  alto 
gether  ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet,  but  presently  the 
coal  slips  down  below  the  third  bar,  with  a  rumbling 
sound, — like  that  of  coarse  gravel  falling  into  a  new- 
dug  grave. 


ANTHRACITE.  93 


-She  is  gone  ! 


Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly,  gener 
ously,  while  there  was  mortality  to  kindle  it  ;  eternity 
will  surely  kindle  it  better. 

Tears  indeed ;  but  they  are  tears  of  thanks 
giving,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope  ! 

And  the  eyes,  full  of  those  tears,  which  ministering 
angels  bestow,  climb  with  quick  vision,  upon  the 
angelic  ladder,  and  open  upon  the  futurity  where  she 
has  entered,  and  upon  the  country,  which  she  enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are  dead. 

You  are  in  the  death  chamber  of  life  ;  but  you  are 
also  in  the  death  chamber  of  care.  The  world  seems 
sliding  backward  ;  and  hope  and  you  are  sliding  for 
ward.  The  clouds,  the  agonies,  the  vain  expectan 
cies,  the  braggart  noise,  the  fears,  now  vanish  be 
hind  the  curtain  of  the  Past,  and  of  the  Night. 
They  roll  from  your  soul  like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending  Present, 
you  reach  out  your  prayerful  hands  toward  that 
boundless  Future,  where  God's  eye  lifts  over  the 
horizon,  like  sunrise  on  the  ocean.  Do  you  recog 
nize  it  as  an  earnest  of  something  better  ?  Aye,  if 
the  heart  has  been  pure,  and  steady, — burning  liko 
my  fire — it  has  learned  it  without  seeming  to  learn. 
Faith  has  grown  upon  it,  as  the  blossom  grows  upon 
the  bud,  or  the  flower  upon  the  slow-lifting  stalk. 


94  R  K  V  E  R  I  E  S     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  tho  dream-land  where  I 
live.  They  sink  with  the  dying  street  noise,  and 
vanish  with  the  embers  of  my  fire.  Even  Ambition, 
with  its  hot  and  shifting  flame,  is  all  gone  out. 
The  heart  in  the  dimness  of  the  fadin^  fire-flow  is 

O  O 

all  itself.  The  memory  of  what  good  things  have 
come  over  it  in  the  troubled  youth-life,  bear  it  up  ; 
and  hope  and  faith  bear  it  on.  There  is  no  extrava 
gant  pulse-flow  ;  there  is  no  mad  fever  of  the  brain  ; 
but  only  the  soul,  forgetting — for  once — all,  save  its 
destinies,  and  its  capacities  for  good.  And  it  mounts 
higher  and  higher  on  these  wings  of  thought ;  and 
hope  burns  stronger  and  stronger  out  of  the  ashes  of 
decaying  life,  until  the  sharp  edge  of  the  grave 
seems  but  a  foot-scraper  at  the  wicket  of  Elysium  ! 

But  what  is  paper  ;  and  what  are  words  ?  Vain 
things  !  The  soul  leaves  them  behind  ;  the  pen 
staggers  like  a  starveling  cripple  ;  and  your  heart  is 
leaving  it,  a  whole  length  of  the  life-course  behind. 
The  soul's  mortal  longings, — its  poor  baffled  hopes, 
are  dim  now  in  the  light  of  those  infinite  longings, 
which  spread  over  it,  soft  and  holy  as  day-dawn. 
Eternity  has  stretched  a  corner  of  its  mantle  toward 
you,  and  the  breath  of  its  waving  fringe  is  like  a  gale 
of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of  the  cinders 
within  my  grate,  startled  me,  and  dragged  back  u\y 


ANTHRACITE.  95 

fancy  from  my  flower  chase,  beyond  the  Phlcgethon, 
to  the  white  ashes,  that  were  now  thick  all  over  the 
darkened  coals. 

— And  this — mused  I — is  only  a   bachelor-dream 
about    a  pure,   and   loving  heart !     And  to-morrow 

comes   cankerous   life    again : is   it   wished  for  ? 

Or  if  not  wished  for,  is  the  not  wishing,  wicked  ? 
„  Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they  can  ?  Are 
we  not  after  all  poor  grovelling  mortals,  tied  to  earth, 
and  to  each  other  ;  are  there  not  sympathies,  and 
hopes,  and  affections  which  can  only  find  their  issue, 
and  blessing,  in  fellow  absorption  ?  Does  not  the 
heart,  steady,  and  pure  as  it  may  bo,  and  mounting 
on  soul  flights  often  as  it  dare,  want  a  human  sympa 
thy,  perfectly  indulged,  to  make  it  healthful  ?  Is 
there  not  a  fount  of  love  for  this  world,  as  there  is  a 
fount  of  love  for  the  other  ?  Is  there  not  a  certain 
store  of  tenderness,  cooped  in  this  heart,  which  must, 
and  will  be  lavished,  before  the  end  comes  ?  Does 
it  not  plead  with  the  judgment,  and  make  issue 
with  prudence,  year  after  year?  Does  it  not  dog 
your  steps  all  through  your  social  pilgrimagj},  set 
ting  up  its  claims  in  forms  fresh,  and  odorous  as  new- 
blown  heath  bells,  saying, — come  away  from  the 
heartless,  the  factitious,  the  vain,  and  measure  your 
heart  not  by  its  constraints,  but  by  its  fulness,  and 
by  its  depth  ? — lot  it  mn,  and  be  joyous  ! 


96        REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh  night- 
dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend,  whispering — be  satisfied  j 
keep  your  heart  from  running  over ;  bridle  those 
affections  ;  there  is  nothing  worth  loving  ? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over  your  spirit  of 
reverie  like  a  beckoning  angel,  crowned  with  halo, 
saying — hope  on,  hope  ever  ;  the  heart  and  I  are 
kindred ;  our  mission  will  be  fulfilled  ;  nature  shall  ac 
complish  its  purpose ;  the  soul  shall  have  its  Paradise  ! 

1  threw  myself  upon  my  bed :  and  as  my 

thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp  business  of  the 
morrow,  my  Reverie,  and  its  glowing  images,  that 
made  my  heart  bound,  swept  away,  like  those  fleecy 
rain  clouds  of  August,  on  which  the  sun  paints  rain 
bows — driven  Southward,  by  a  cool,  rising  wind  from 
the  North. 

J  wonder, — thought  I,  as  I  dropped  asleep, — 

if  a  married  man  with  his  sentiment  made  actual,  is, 
after  all,  as  happy  as  we  poor  fellows,  in  our  dreams  ? 


Hcucric. 


'21  €ijgar  tljuc  times  £tgl)tcir. 


OVER   HIS   CIGAR. 


I  DO  not  believe  that  there  was  ever  an  Aunt 
Tabithy  who  could  abide  cigars.  My  Aunt 
Tabithy  hated  them  with  a  peculiar  hatred.  She  was 
not  only  insensible  to  the  rich  flavor  of  a  fresh  rolling 
volume  of  smoke,  but  she  could  not  so  much  as 
tolerate  the  sight  of  the  rich  russet  colour  of  an 
Havana-labelled  box.  It  put  her  out  of  all  conceit 
with  Guava  jelly,  to  find  it  advertised  in  the  same 
tongue,  and  with  the  same  Cuban  coarseness  of 
design. 

She  could  see  no  good  in  a  cigar. 

"  But  by  your  leave,  my  aunt,"  said  I  to  her,  the 
other  morning, — "  there  Is  very  much  that  is  good  in 
a  ctear." 


100      REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

My  aunt  who  was  sweeping,  tossed  her  head,  and 
with  it,  her  curls — dona  up  in  paper. 

"  It  is  a  very  excellent  matter,"  continued  I, 
puffing. 

"  It  is  dirty,"  said  my  aunt. 

"It  is  clean  and  sweet,"  said  I;  "and  a  most 
pleasant  soother  of  disturbed  feelings  ;  and  a  capital 

companion  ;  and  a  comforter "  and  I  stopped  to 

puff. 

"  You  know  it  is  a  filthy  abomination,"  said  my 

aunt, — "  and  you  ought  to  be ,"  and  she  stopped 

to  put  up  one  of  her  curls,  which  with  the  energy  of 
her  gesticulation,  had  fallen  out  of  its  place. 

"  It  suggests  quiet  thoughts" — continued  I, — "  and 
makes  a  man  meditative  ;  and  gives  a  current  to  his 
habits  of  contemplation, — as  I  can  show  you,"  said  I, 
warming  with  the  theme. 

My  aunt,  still  fingering  her  papers, — with  the  pin 
in  her  mouth, — gave  a  most  incredulous  shrug. 

"  Aunt  Tabithy" — said  I,  and  gave  two  or  three 
violent,  consecutive  puffs, — Ci  Aunt  Tabithy,  I  can 
make  up  such  a  series  of  reflections  out  of  my  cigar, 
as  would  do  your  heart  good  to  listen  to  !" 

"  About  what,  pray  ?"  said  my  aunt,  contemptu 
ously. 

"  About  love,"  said  I,  "  which  is  easy  enough 
lighted,  but  wants  constancy  to  keep  it  in  a  glow;— 


OVER    HIS    CIGAR.  101 

or  about  matrimony,  which  has  a  great  deal  of  fire 
iu  the  beginning,  but  it  is  a  fire  that  consumes  all 
that  feeds  the  blaze  ; — or  about  life,"  continued  I 
earnestly, — "  which  at  the  first  is  fresh  and  odorous, 
but  ends  shortly  in  a  withered  cinder,  that  is  fit  only 
for  the  ground." 

My  aunt  who  was  forty  and  unmarried,  finished  her 
curl  with  a  flip  of  the  fingers, — resumed  her  hold  of 
the  broom,  and  leaned  her  chin  upon  one  end  of  it, 
with  an  expression  of  some  wonder,  some  curiosity, 
and  a  great  deal  of  expectation. 

I  could  have  wished  my  aunt  had  been  a  little  less 
curious,  or  that  I  had  been  a  little  less  communica 
tive  :  for  though  it  was  all  honestly  said  on  my  part, 
yet  my  contemplations  bore  that  vague,  shadowy,  and 
delicious  sweetness,  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  put 
them  into  words, — least  of  all,  at  the  bidding  of  an 
old  lady,  leaning  on  a  broom-handle. 

"  Give  me  time,  Aunt  Tabithy," — said  I, — "  a  good 
dinner,  and  after  it  a  good  cigar,  and  I  will  serve  you 
such  a  sun-shiny  sheet  of  reverie,  all  twisted  out  of 
the  smoke,  as  will  make  your  kind  old  heart  ache  !" 

Aunt  Tabithy,  in  utter  contempt,  either  of  my 
mention  of  the  dinner,  or  of  the  smoke,  or  of  the  old 
heart,  commenced  sweeping  furiously. 

"  If  I  do  not" — continued  I,  anxious  to  appease 
her, — "  if  I  do  not,  Aunt  Tabithy,  it  shall  be  my  last 


102     REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

cigar;  (Aunt  Tabithy  stopped  sweeping)  and  all  my 
tobacco  money,  (Aunt  Tabithy  drew  near  me)  shall 
go  to  buy  ribbons  for  my  most  respectable,  and  worthy 
Aunt  Tabithy ;  and  a  kinder  person  could  not  havo 
them  ;  or  one,"  continued  I,  with  a  generous  puff, 
"whom  they  would  more  adorn." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  gave  me  a  half-playful, — half- 
thankful  nudge. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  our  bargain  was  struck} 
my  part  of  it  is  already  stated.  On  her  part,  Aunt 
Tabithy  was  to  allow  me,  in  case  of  my  success,  an 
evening  cigar  unmolested,  upon  the  front  porch, 
underneath  her  favorite  rose-tree.  It  was  concluded, 
I  say,  as  I  sat ;  the  smoke  of  my  cigar  rising  grace 
fully  around  my  Aunt  Tabithy 's  curls  ; — -our  right 
hands  joined ; — my  left  was  holding  my  cigar,  while 
in  hers,  was  tightly  grasped — her  broom-stick. 

And  this  Reverie,  to  make  the  matter  short,  is 
what  came  of  the  contract. 


I. 

LIGHTED    WITH    A    COAL. 

,v 

I  TAKE  up  a  coal  with  the  tongs,  and  setting  the 
end  of  my  cigar  against  it,  puff — and  puff  again  - 
but  there  is  no  smoke.  There  is  very  little  hope  of 
lighting  from  a  dead  coal ; — no  more  hope,  thought 
I, — than  of  kindling  one's  heart  into  flame,  by  con 
tact  with  a  dead  heart. 

To  kindle,  there  must  be  warmth  and  life  ;  and  I 
sat  for  a  moment,  thinking, — even  before  I  lit  my 
cigar, — on  the  vanity  and  folly  of  those  poor,  pur 
blind  fellows,  who  go  on  puffing  for  half  a  lifetime, 
against  dead  coals.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Heaven, 
in  its  mercy,  has  made  their  senses  so  obtuse,  that 
they  know  not  when  their  souls  are  in  a  flame,  or 
when  they  are  dead.  I  can  imagine  none  but  the 


104  "K~E-V"E"R  I  E  S     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

most  moderate,  satisfaction,  in  continuing  to  love, 
what  has  got  no  ember  of  love  within  it.  The  Ital 
ians  have  a  very  sensible  sort  of  proverb, — amare,  £ 
non  essere  amato,  e  tempo  perduto : — to  love,  and  not 
be  loved,  is  time  lost. 

I  take  a  kind  of  rude  pleasure  in  flinging  down  a 
coal  that  has  no  life  in  it.  And  it  seemed  to  me, — 
and  may  Heaven  pardon  the  ill-nature  that  belongs 
to  the  thought, — that  there  would  be  much  of  the 
same  kind  of  satisfaction,  in  dashing  from  you  a  luke 
warm  creature,  covered  over  with  the  yellow  ashes 
of  old  combustion,  that  with  ever  so  much  attention, 
and  the  nearest  approach  of  the  lips,  never  shows 
signs  of  fire.  May  Heaven  forgive  me  again,  but  I 
should  long  to  break  away,  though  the  marriage  bonds 
held  me,  and  see  what  liveliness  was  to  be  found  else 
where. 

I  have  seen  before  now  a  creeping  vine  try  to  grow 
up  against  a  marble  wall ;  it  shoots  out  its  tendrils  in 
all  directions,  seeking  for  some  crevice  by  which  to 
fasten  and  to  climb  ; — looking  now  above  and  now 
below, — twining  upon  itself, — reaching  farther  up, 
but  after  all,  finding  no  good  foothold,  and  falling 
away  as  if  in  despair.  But  nature  is  not  unkind ; 
twining  things  were  made  to  twine.  The  longing 
tendrils  take  new  strength  in  the  sunshine,  and  in  the 
showers,  and  shoot  out  toward  some  hospitable  trunk. 


LIGHTED    WITH    A 


They  fasten  easily  to  the  kindly  roughness  of  the  bark, 
and  stretch  up,  dragging  after  them  the  vine  ;  which 
by  arid  by,  from  the  topmost  bough,  will  nod  its  blos 
soms  over  at  the  marble  wall,  that  refused  it  succour, 
as  if  it  said, — stand  there  in  your  pride,  cold,  white 
wall !  we,  the  tree  and  I  are  kindred,  it  the  helper, 
and  I  the  helped  ;  and  bound  fast  together,  we  riot 
in  the  sunshine,  and  in  gladness. 

The  thought  of  this  image  made  me  search  for  a 
new  coal  that  should  have  some  brightness  in  it. 
There  may  be  a  white  ash  over  it  indeed  ;  as  you 
will  find  tender  feelings  covered  with  the  mask  of 
courtesy,  or  with  the  veil  of  fear ;  but  with  a  breath 
it  all  flies  off,  and  exposes  the  heat,  and  the  glow  that 
you  are  seeking. 

At  the  first  touch,  the  delicate  edges  of  the  cigar 
crimple,  a  thin  line  of  smoke  rises, — doubtfully  for  a 
while,  and  with  a  coy  delay  5  but  after  a  hearty  respi 
ration  or  two,  it  grows  strong,  and  my  cigar  is  fairly 
lighted. 

That  first  taste  of  the  new  smoke,  and  of  the  fra 
grant  leaf  is  very  grateful ;  it  has  a  bloom  about  it, 
that  you  wish  might  last.  It  is  like  your  first  love, — 
fresh,  genial,  and  rapturous.  Like  that,  it  fills  up 
all  the  craving  of  your  soul ;  and  the  light,  blue 
wreaths  of  smoke,  like  the  roseate  clouds  that  hang 
around  the  morning  of  your  henrt  life,  cut  you  off 


106       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

from  the  chill  atmosphere  of  mere  worldly  compan 
ionship,  and  make  a  gorgeous  firmament  for  your 
fancy  to  riot  in. 

I  do  not  speak  now  of  those  later,  and  manlier  pas 
sions,  into  which  judgment  must  be  thrusting  its  cold 
tones,  and  when  all  the  sweet  tumult  of  your  heart  has 
mellowed  into  the  sober  ripeness  of  affection.  But  I 
mean  that  boyish  burning,  which  belongs  to  every 
poor  mortal's  lifetime,  and  which  bewilders  him  with 
the  thought  that  he  has  reached  the  highest  point  of 
human  joy,  before  he  has  tasted  any  of  that  bitter 
ness,  from  which  alone  our  highest  human  joys  have 
spring.  I  mean  the  time,  when  you  cut  initials  with 
your  jack-knife  on  the  smooth  bark  of  beech  trees  ; 
and  went  moping  under  the  long  shadows  at  sunset ; 
and  thought  Louise  the  prettiest  name  in  the  wide 
world ;  and  picked  flowers  to  leave  at  her  door  ;  and 
stole  out  at  night  to  watch  the  light  in  her  window  ; 
and  read  such  novels  as  those  about  Helen  Mar,  or 
Charlotte,  to  give  some  adequate  expression  to  your 
agonized  feelings. 

At  such  a  stage,  you  are  quite  certain  that  you  are 
deeply,  and  madly  in  love ;  you  persist  in  the  face  of 
heaven,  and  earth.  You  would  like  to  meet  the  in 
dividual  who  dared  to  doubt  it. 

You  think   she  has  got  the  tidiest,  and  jauntiest 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    GOAL.         107 

little  figure  that  ever  was  seen.  You  think  back 
upon  some  time  when  in  your  games  of  forfeit,  you 
gained  a  kiss  from  those  lips ;  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
kiss  was  hanging  on  you  yet,  and  warming  you  all 
over.  And  then  again,  it  seems  so  strange  that  your 
lips  did  really  touch  hers !  You  half  question  if  it 
could  have  been  actually  so, — and  how  you  could  have 
dared ; — and  you  wonder  if  you  would  have  courage 
to  do  the  same  thing  again  ? — and  upon  second 
thought,  are  quite  sure  you  would, — and  snap  your 
fingers  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  sweet  little  hats  she  does  wear ;  and  in  the 
school  room,  when  the  hat  is  hung  up — what  curls — 
golden  curls,  worth  a  hundred  Golcondas !  How 
bravely  you  study  the  top  lines  of  the  spelling  book 
— that  your  eyes  may  run  over  the  edge  of  the  cover, 
without  the  schoolmaster's  notice,  and  feast  upon 
her! 

You  half  wish  that  somebody  would  run  away  with 
her,  as  they  did  with  Amanda,  in  the  Children  of  the 
Abbey ; — and  then  you  might  ride  up  on  a  splendid 
black  horse,  and  draw  a  pistol,  or  blunderbuss,  and 
shoot  the  villians,  and  carry  her  back,  all  in  tears, 
fainting,  and  languishing  upon  your  shoulder  ; — and 
have  her  father  (who  is  Judge  of  the  County  Court,) 
take  your  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  make  some  elo 
quent  remarks.  A  great  many  such  re-captures  you 


108       11  E  V  E  R  I  E  S     0  F      A      ] 3  A  C  II  E  L  0  K  . 

run  over  in  your  mind,  and  think  how  delightful  it 
would  be  to  peril  your  life,  either  by  flood,  or  fire, — to 
cut  off  your  arm,  or  your  head,  or  any  such  trifle, — 
for  your  dear  Louise. 

You  can  hardly  think  of  anything  more  joyous  in 
life,  than  to  live  with  her  in  some  old  castle,  very  far 
away  from  steamboats,  and  post-offices,  and  pick  wild 
geraniums  for  her  hair,  and  read  poetry  with  her, 
under  the  shade  of  very  dark  ivy  vines.  And  you 
would  have  such  a  charming  boudoir  in  some  corner 
of  the  old  ruin,  with  a  harp  in  it,  and  books  bound  in 
gilt,  with  cupids  on  the  cover,  and  such  a  fairy  couch, 
with  the  curtains  hung — as  you  have  seen  them  hung 
in  some  illustrated  Arabian  stories — upon  a  pair  of 
carved  doves  ! 

And  when  they  laugh  at  you  about  it,  you  turn  it 
off  perhaps  with  saying — "  it  isn't  so  ;"  but  after 
ward,  in  your  chamber,  or  under  the  tree  where  you 
have  cut  her  name,  you  take  Heaven  to  witness,  that 
it  is  so  ;  and  think — what  a  cold  world  it  is,  to  be  so 
careless  about  such  holy  emotions !  You  perfectly 
hate  a  certain  stout  boy  in  a  green  jacket,  who  is  for 
ever  twitting  you,  and  calling  her  names  ;  but  when 
some  old  maiden  aunt  teases  you  in  her  kind,  gentle 
way,  you  bear  it  very  proudly  ;  and  with  a  feeling  as 
if  you  could  bear  a  great  deal  more  for  her  sake 
And  when  the  minister  reads  off  marriage  anonunce- 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    COAL.          109 

merits  in  the  church,  you  think  how  it  will  sound  one 
of  these  days,  to  have  your  name,  and  hers,  read  from 
the  pulpit ; — and  how  the  people  will  all  look  at  you, 
and  how  prettily  she  will  blush;  and  how  poor  little 
Dick,  who  you  know  loves  her,  but  is  afraid  to  say  so, 
will  squirm  upon  his  bench. 

— Heigho  ! — mused  I, — as  the  blue  smoke  rolled 
up  around  my  head, — these  first  kindlings  of  the  love 
that  is  in  one,  are  very  pleasant ! — but  will  they  last  ? 

You  love  to  listen  to  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  as  she 
stirs  about  the  room.  It  is  better  music  than  grown 
up  ladies  will  make  upon  all  their  harpsichords,  in 
the  years  that  are  to  come.  But  this,  thank  Heaven, 
you  do  not  know. 

You  think  you  can  trace  her  foot-mark,  on  your 
way  to  the  school ; — and  what  a  dear  little  foot-mark 
it  is  !  And  from  that  single  point,  if  she  be  out  of 
your  sight  for  days,  you  conjure  up  the  whole  image, 
— the  elastic,  lithe  little  figure, — the  springy  step, — 
the  dotted  muslin  so  light,  and  flowing, — the  silk 
kerchief,  with  its  most  tempting  fringe  playing  upon 
the  clear  white  of  her  throat, — how  you  envy  that 
fringe  !  And  her  chin  is  as  round  as  a  peach — and 
the  lips — such  lips  ! — and  you  sigh,  and  hang  your 
head ;  and  wonder  when  you  shaH  see  her  again  ! 

You  would  like  to  write  her  a  letter  ;  but  then  peo 
ple  would  talk  so  coldly  about  it ;  and  beside  you  are 


1  10         11  K  V  E  R  I  E  S      OF      A       BACHELOR. 

not  quito  sure  you  could  write  such  billets  as  Thad- 
deus  of  Warsaw  used  to  write  ;  and  anything  less 
warm  or  elegant,  would  not  do  at  all.  You  talk  about 
this  one,  or  that  one,  whom  they  call  pretty,  in  the 
coolest  way  in  the  world  ;  you  see  very  little  of  their 
prettiness ;  they  are  good  girls  to  be  sure  ;  and  you 
hope  they  will  get  good  husbands  some  day  or  other ; 
but  it  is  not  a  matter  that  concerns  you  very  much. 
They  do  not  live  in  your  world  of  romance  ;  they  are 
not  the  angels  of  that  sky  which  your  heart  makes 
rosy,  and  to  which  I  have  likened  the  blue  waves  of 
this  rolling  smoke. 

You  can  even  joke  as  you  talk  of  others  ;  you  can 
smile, — as  you  think — very  graciously  ;  you  can  say 
laughingly  that  you  are  deeply  in  love  with  them,  and 
think  it  a  most  capital  joke ;  you  can  touch  their 
hands,  or  steal  a  kiss  from  them  in  your  games,  most 
imperturbably  ; — they  are  very  dead  coals. 

But  the  live  one  is  very  lively.  When  you  take 
the  name  on  your  lip,  it  seems  somehow,  to  be  made 
of  different  materials  from  the  rest ;  you  cannot  half 
so  easily  separate  it  into  letters ; — write  it,  indeed 
you  can  ;  for  you  have  had  practice, — very  much  pri 
vate  practice  on  odd  scraps  of  paper,  and  on  the  fly 
leaves  of  geographies,  and  of  your  natural  philosophy. 
You  know  perfectly  well  how  it  looks  ;  it  seems  to 
De  written  indeed,  somewhere  behind  your  eyes  ;  and 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    COAL.          Ill 

in  such  liappy  position  with  respect  to  the  optic 
nerve,  that  you  see  it  all  the  time,  though  you  are 
looking  in  an  opposite  direction  ;  and  so  distinctly, 
that  you  have  great  fears  lest  people  looking  into  your 
eyes,  should  see  it  too  ! 

For  all  this,  it  is  a  far  more  delicate  name  to  han 
dle  than  most  that  you  know  of.  Though  it  is  very 
cool,  arid  pleasant  on  the  brain }  it  is  very  hot,  and 
difficult  to  manage  on  the  lip.  It  is  not,  as  your 
schoolmaster  would  say, — a  name,  so  much  as  it  is  an 
idea ; — not  a  noun,  but  a  verb, — an  active,  and  tran 
sitive  verb ;  and  yet  a  most  irregular  verb,  wanting 
the  passive  voice. 

It  is  something  against  your  schoolmaster's  doc 
trine,  to  find  warmth  in  the  moonlight ;  but  with  that 
soft  hand — it  is  very  soft — lying  within  your  arm, 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  warmth,  whatever  the  philo 
sophers  may  say,  even  in  pale  moonlight.  The  beams 
too,  breed  sympathies,  very  close-running  sympathies, 
— not  talked  about  in  the  chapters  on  optics,  and  alto 
gether  too  fine  for  language.  And  under  their  in 
fluence,  you  retain  the  little  hand,  that  you  had  not 
dared  retain  so  long  before ;  and  her  struggle  to  re 
cover  it, — if  indeed  it  be  a  struggle, — is  infinitely  less 
than  it  was  ; — nay,  it  is  a  kind  of  struggle,  not  so 
much  against  you,  as  between  gladness  and  modesty. 
It  makes  you  as  bold  as  a  lion  ;  and  the  feeble  hand 


112      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

like  a  poor  lamb  in  the  lion's  clutch,  is  powerless, 
and  very  meek ; — and  failing  of  escape,  it  will  sue  for 
gentle  treatment ;  and  will  meet  your  warm  promise, 
with  a  kind  of  grateful  pressure,  that  is  but  half 
acknowledged,  by  the  hand  that  makes  it. 

My  cigar  is  burning  with  wondrous  freenoss  ;  ami 
from  the  smoke  flash  forth  images  bright  and  quick 
as  lightning — with  no  thunder,  but  the  thunder  of 
the  pulse.  But  will  it  all  last  ?  Damp  will  deaden 
the  fire  of  a  cigar  ;  and  there  are  hellish  damps — 
alas,  too  many, — that  will  deaden  the  early  blazing 
of  the  heart. 

She  is  pretty, — growing  prettier  to  your  eye,  the 
more  you  look  upon  her,  and  prettier  to  your  ear,  tho 
more  you  listen  to  her.  But  you  wonder  who  the 
tall  boy  was,  who  you  saw  walking  with  her,  two  days 
ago  ?  He  was  not  a  bad-looking  boy  ;  on  the  con 
trary,  you  think, — (with  a  grit  of  your  teeth) — that 
he  was  infernally  handsome  !  You  look  at  him  very 
shyly,  and  very  closely,  when  you  pass  him  ;  and  turn 
to  see  how  he  walks,  and  to  measure  his  shoulders, 
and  are  quite  disgusted  with  the  very  modest,  and 
gentlemanly  way,  with  which  he  carries  himself. 
You  think  you  would  like  to  have  a  fisticuff  with  him, 
if  you  were  only  sure  of  having  the  best  of  it.  You 
sound  the  neighborhood  coyly,  to  find  out  who  the 


LIGHTED     VITH-  A    COAL.          113 

strange  boy  is  ;  and  are  half  ashamed  of  yourself  for 
doing  it. 

You  gather  a  magnificent  bouquet  to  send  her,  and 
tie  it  with  a  green  ribbon,  and  a  love  knot, — and  get 
a  little  rose-bud  in  acknowledgment.  That  day,  you 
pass  the  tall-boy  with  a  very  patronizing  look ;  and 
wonder  if  he  would  not  like  to  have  a  sail  in  your 
boat  ? 

But  by  and  by,  you  find  the  tall  boy  walking  with 
her  again  ;  and  she  looks  sideways  at  him,  and  with  a 
kind  of  grown  up  air,  that  makes  you  feel  very  boy- 
like,  and  humble,  and  furious.  And  you  look  dag 
gers  at  him  when  you  pass  ;  and  touch  your  cap  to 
her,  with  quite  uncommon  dignity ; — and  wonder  if 
she  is  not  sorry,  and  does  not  feel  very  badly,  to  have 
got  such  a  look  from  you  ? 

On  some  other  day,  however,  you  meet  her  alone  : 
and  the  sight  of  her  makes  your  face  wear  a  genial, 
sunny  air ;  and  you  talk  a  little  sadly  about  your 
fears  and  your  jealousies ;  she  seems  a  little  sad,  and 
a  little  glad,  together ; — and  is  sorry  she  has  made 
you  feel  badly, — and  you  are  sorry  too.  And  with 
this  pleasant  twin  sorrow,  you  are  knit  together  again 
— closer  than  ever.  That  one  little  tear  of  hers  has 
been  worth  more  to  you  than  a  thousand  smiles. 
Now  you  love  her  madly  ;  you  could  swear  it — swear 
it  to  her,  or  swear  it  to  the  universe.  You  even  say 


114          R  EYERIES     O  P      A.     13  AC   .1  E  L  O  R  . 

as  nmch  to  some  kind  old  friend  at  night-fall  j  but 
your  mention  of  her,  is  tremulous  and  joyful, — .with 
a  kind  of  bound  in  your  speech,  as  if  the  heart  worked 
too  quick  for  the  tongue  ;  and  as  if  the  lips  were 
ashamed  to  be  passing  over  such  secrets  of  the  soul, 
to  the  mere  sense  of  hearing.  At  this  stage,  you 
cannot  trust  yourself  to  speak  her  praises  ;  or  if  you 
venture,  the  expletives  fly  away  with  your  thought, 
before  you  can  chain  it  into  language  ;  and  your 
speech,  at  your  best  endeavor,  is  but  a  succession  of 
broken  superlatives,  that  you  are  ashamed  of.  You 
strain  for  language  that  will  scald  the  thought  of  her  ; 
but  hot  as  you  can  make  it,  it  falls  back  upon  your 
heated  fancy,  like  a  cold  shower. 

Heat  so  intense  as  this  consumes  very  fast ;  and 
the  matter  it  feeds  fastest  on,  is — judgment ;  and 
with  judgment  gone,  there  is  room  for  jealousy  to 
creep  in.  You  grow  petulant  at  another  sight  of  that 
tall-boy  ;  and  the  one  tear,  which  cured  your  first 
petulance,  will  not  cure  it  now.  You  let  a  little  of 
your  fever  break  out  in  speech — a  speech  which  you 
go  home  to  mourn  over.  But  she  knows  nothing  of 
the  mourning,  while  she  knows  very  much  of  the 
anger.  Yain  tears  are  very  apt  to  breed  pride  ;  and 
when  you  go  again  with  your  petulance,  you  will  find 
your  rosy-lipped  girl  taking  her  first  studies  in  dig 
nity 


LIGHTED   WITH    A   COAL.         115 

You  will  stay  away,  you  say; — poor  fool,  you 
are  feeding  on  what  your  disease  loves  best !  You 
wonder  if  she  is  not  sighing  for  your  return, — and  if 
your  name  is  not  running  in  her  thought, — and  if 
tears  of  regret  are  not  moistening  those  sweet  eyes. 

And  wondering  thus,  you  stroll  moodily,  and 

hopefully  toward  her  father's  home  ;  you  pass  the 
door  once — twice ;  you  loiter  under  the  shade  of  an 
old  tree,  where  you  have  sometimes  bid  her  adieu ; 
your  old  fondness  is  struggling  with  your  pride,  and 
has  almost  made  the  mastery  ;  but  in  the  very  mo 
ment  of  victory,  you  see  yonder  your  hated  rival,  and 
beside  him  looking  very  gleeful,  and  happy — your  per 
fidious  Louise. 

How  quick  you  throw  off  the  marks  of  your  strug 
gle,  and  put  on  the  boldest  air  of  boyhood  ;  and  what 
a  dexterous  handling  to  your  knife,  and  a  wonderful 
keenness  to  the  edge,  as  you  cut  away  from  the  bark 
of  the  beech  tree,  all  trace  of  her  name  !  Still  there 
is  a  little  silent  relenting,  and  a  few  tears  at  night, 
and  a  little  tremor  of  the  hand,  as  you  tear  out — the 
next  day, — every  fly  leaf  that  bears  her  name.  But 
at  sight  of  your  rival, — looking  so  jaunty,  and  in  such 
capital  spirits,  you  put  on  the  proud  man  again. 
You  may  meet  her,  but  you  say  nothing  of  your 
struggles  ; — -oh  no,  not  one  word  of  that ! — but  you 
talk  with  amazing  rapidity  about  your  games,  or  what 


116        It  EYERIES     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

not ;  and  you  never — never  give  her  another  peep 
into  your  boyish  heart ! 

For  a  week,  you  do  not  sec  her, — nor  for  a  month, 
— nor  two  months — nor  three. 

— Puff — puff  once  more ;  there  is  only  a  little 
nauseous  smoke  ;  and  now — my  cigar  is  gone  out 
altogether.  I  must  light  again. 


II. 

WITH    A    WISP    OF    PAPER. 


.^I^HERE  are  those  who  throw  away  a  cigar,  when 
JL  once  gone  out;  they  must  needs  have  plenty 
more.  But  nobody  that  I  ever  heard  of,  keeps  a  cedar 
box  of  hearts,  labelled  at  Havanna.  Alas,  there  is 
but  one  to  light  ! 

But  can  a  heart  once  lit,  be  lighted  again  ?  Au 
thority  on  this  point  is  worth  something  ;  yet  it  should 
be  impartial  authority.  I  should  be  loth  to  take  in 
evidence,  for  the  fact,  —  however  it  might  tally  with 
my  hope,  the  affidavit  of  some  rakish  old  widower, 
who  had  cast  his  weeds,  before  the  grass  had  started 
on  the  mound  of  his  affliction  ;  and  1  should  be  as 
slow  to  take,  in  way  of  rebutting  testimony,  the  oath 
of  any  sweet  young  girl,  just  becoming  conscious  of 
her  heart's  existence  —  by  its  loss. 


118       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Very  much,  it  seems  to  me,  depends  upon  the 
quality  of  the  fire  :  and  I  can  easily  conceive  of  one 
so  pure,  so  constant,  so  exhausting,  that  if  it  were 
once  gone  out,  whether  in  the  chills  of  death,  or  under 
the  blasts  of  pitiless  fortune,  there  would  be  no  re 
kindling  ; — simply  because  there  would  be  nothing 
left  to  kindle.  And  I  can  imagine  too  a  fire  so 
earnest,  and  so  true,  that  whatever  malice  might  urge, 
or  a  devilish  ingenuity  devise,  there  could  no  other 
be  found,  high  or  low,  far  or  near,  which  should  not 
so  contrast  with  the  first,  as  to  make  it  seem  cold  as 
ice. 

I  remember  in  an  old  play  of  Davenport's,  the 
hero  is  led  to  doubt  his  mistress ;  he  is  worked  upon 
by  slanders,  to  quit  her  altogether, — though  he  has 
loved,  and  does  still  love  passionately.  She  bids  him 
adieu,  with  large  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes,  (and  I 
lay  down  my  cigar,  to  recite  it  aloud,  fancying  all  the 
while,  with  a  varlet  impudence,  that  some  Abstemia 
is  repeating  it  to  me) — 

Farewell  Lorenzo, 

Whom  my  soul  doth  love  ;  if  you  ever  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife ;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her,  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Of  your  suspicion:  And  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  1  loved  you. 


WITH    A    WISP    OF    PAPER.         119 

And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice, 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  you  see  me  thin,  and  pale, 
Strewing  your  path  with  flowers ! 

Poor  Abstemia  !  Lorenzo  never  could  find 

such  another, — there  never  could  be  such  another,  for 
such  Lorenzo. 

To  blaze  anew,  it  is  essential  that  the  old  fire  be 
utterly  gone  ;  and  can  any  truly-lighted  soul  ever 
grow  cold,  except  the  grave  cover  it  ?  The  poets  all 
say  no :  Othello,  had  he  lived  a  thousand  years 
would  not  have  loved  again  ; — nor  Desdemona, — nor 
Andromache, — nor  Medea, — nor  Ulysses, — nor  Ham 
let.  But  in  the  cool  wreaths  of  the  pleasant  smoke, 
let  us  see  what  truth,  is  in  the  poets. 

— What  is  love, — mused  I, — at  the  first,  but  a 
mere  fancy  :  There  is  a  prettincss,  that  your  soul 
cleaves  to,  as  your  eye  to  a  pleasant  flower,  or  your 
ear  to  a  soft  melody. '  Presently,  admiration  comes 
in,  as  a  sort  of  balance-wheel  for  the  eccentric  revo 
lutions  of  your  fancy  ;  and  your  admiration  is  touched 
off  with  such  neat  quality  as  respect.  Too  much  of 
this  indeed,  they  say,  deadens  the  fancy ;  and  so  re 
tards  the  action  of  the  heart  machinery.  But  with  a 
proper  modicum  to  serve  as  a  stock,  devotion  is 
grafted  in  ;  and  then,  by  an  agreeable  and  confused 


120       R  E  V  V,  R  L  E  S     OF     A     B  A  C  11  E  L  O  R  . 

mingling,  all  these  qualities,  and  affections  of  the 
soul,  become  transfused  into  that  vital  feeling,  called 
Love. 

Your  heart  seems  to  have  gone  over  to  another 
and  better  counterpart  of  your  humanity  ;  what  is 
left  of  you,  seems  the  mere  husk  of  some  kernel  that 
has  been  stolen.  It  is  not  an  emotion  of  yours, 
which  is  making  very  easy  voyages  towards  another 
soul, — that  may  be  shortened,  or  lengthened,  at  will ; 
but  it  is  a  passion,  that  is  only  yours,  because  it  is 
tliere  ;  the  more  it  lodges  there,  the  more  keenly  you 
feel  it  to  be  yours. 

The  qualities  that  feed  this  passion,  may  indeed 
belong  to  you  ;  but  they  never  gave  birth  to  such  an 
one  before,  simply  because  there  was  no  place  in 
which  it  could  grow.  Nature  is  very  provident  in 
these  matters.  The  chrysalis  does  not  burst,  until 
there  is  a  wing  to  help  the  gauze-fly  upward.  The 
shell  does  not  break,  until  the  bird  can  breathe ;  nor 
does  the  swallow  quit  its  nest,  until  its  wings  are  tip 
ped  with  the  airy  oars. 

This  passion  of  love  is  strong,  just  in  proportion  as 
the  atmosphere  it  finds,  is  tender  of  its  life.  Let  that 
atmosphere  change  into  too  great  coldness,  and  the 
passion  becomes  a  wreck, — not  yours,  because  it  is 
not  worth  your  having  ; — nor  vital,  because  it  has  lost 
the  soil  where  it  grew.  But  is  it  not  laying  the  re- 


WITH    A    WISP    OF    PAPER.         121 

proach  in  a  high  quarter,  to  say  that  those  qualities 
of  the  heart  which  begot  this  passion,  are  exhausted, 
and  will  not  thenceforth  germinate  through  all  of  your 
life  time  ? 

Take  away  the  worm-eaten  frame  from  your 

arbour  plant,  and  the  wrenched  arms  of  the  despoiled 
climber  will  not  at  the  first,  touch  any  new  trellis  ; 
they  cannot  in  a  day,  change  the  habit  of  a  year. 
But  let  the  new  support  stand  firmly,  and  the  needy 
tendrils  will  presently  lay  hold  upon  the  stranger ; 
and  your  plant  will  regain  its  pride  and  pomp ; — 
cherishing  perhaps  in  its  bent  figure,  a  memento  of 
the  Old ;  but  in  its  more  earnest,  and  abounding  life, 
mindful  only  of  its  sweet  dependance  on  the  New. 

Let  the  Poets  say  what  they  will,  these  affections 
of  ours  are  not  blind,  stupid  creatures,  to  starve  under 
polar  snows,  when  the  very  breezes  of  Heaven  are 
the  appointed  messengers  to  guide  them  toward 
warmth  and  sunshine ! 

And  with  a  little  suddenness  of  manner,  I 

tear  off  a  wisp  of  paper,  and  holding  it  in  the  blaze 
of  my  lamp,  relight  my  cigar.  It  does  not  burn  so 
easily  perhaps  as  at  first : — it  wants  warming,  before 
it  will  catch  ;  but  presently,  it  is  in  a  broad,  full 
glow,  that  throws  light  into  the  corners  of  my  room. 

Just  so, — thought  I, — the  love  of  youth, 

which  succeeds  the  crackling  blaze  of  boyhood, 
6 


J  22        II  E  V  E  R  I  E  S     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

makes  a  broader  flame,  though  it  may  not  be  so  easily 
kindled.  A  mere  dainty  step,  or  a  curling  lock,  or  a 
soft  blue  eye  are  not  enough  ;  but  in  her,  who  has 
quickened  the  new  blaze,  there  is  a  blending  of  all 
these,  with  a  certain  sweetness  of  soul,  that  finds 
expression  in  whatever  feature  or  motion  you  look 
upon.  Her  charms  steal  over  you  gently,  and  almost 
imperceptibly.  You  think  that  she  is  a,  pleasant 
companion — nothing  more  :  and  you  find  the  opinion 
strongly  confirmed  day  by  day  ; — so  well  confirmed, 
indeed,  that  you  begin  to  wonder — why  it  is,  that  she 
is  such  a  delightful  companion?  It  cannot  be  her 
eye,  for  you  have  seen  eyes  almost  as  pretty  as 
Nelly's  ;  nor  can  it  be  her  mouth,  though  Nelly's 
mouth  is  certainly  very  sweet.  And  you  keep 
studying  what  on  earth  it  can  be  that  makes  you  so 
earnest  to  be  near  her,  or  to  listen  to  her  voice. 
The  study  is  pleasant.  You  do  not  know  any  study 
that  is  more  so  ;  or  which  you  accomplish  with  less 
mental  fatigue. 

Upon  a  sudden,  some  fine  day,  when  the  air  is 
balmy,  and  the  recollection  of  Nelly's  voice  and 
manner,  more  balmy  still,  you  wonder — if  you  are 
in  love  ?  When  a  man  has  such  a  wonder,  he  is 
either  very  near  love,  or  he  is  very  far  away  from  it ; 
it  is  a  wonder,  that  is  either  suggested  by  his  hope, 


W  i  T  ii    A    WISP    OF   PAPER.         123 

or  by  that  entanglement  of  feeling  which  blunts  all 
his  perceptions. 

But  if.  not  in  love,  you  have  at  least  a  strong 
fancy, — so  strong,  that  you  tell  your  friends  care 
lessly,  that  she  is  a  nice  girl, — nay,  a  beautiful  girl ; 
and  if  your  education  has  been  bad,  you  strengthen 
the  epithet  on  your  own  tonguo,  with  a  very  wicked 
expletive  : — of  which  the  mildest  form  would  be — • 
'  deuced  fine  girl  !'  Presently,  however,  you  get 
beyond  this  ;  and  your  companionship,  and  your 
wonder,  relapse  into  a  constant,  quiet  habit  of  un- 
mistakeable  love  : — not  impulsive,  quick,  and  fiery, 
like  the  first ;  but  mature  and  calm.  It  is  as  if  it 
were  born  with  your  soul,  and  the  recognition  of  it 
was  rather  an  old  remembrance,  than  a  fresh  passion 
It  does  not  seek  to  gratify  its  exuberance,  and  force, 
with  such  relief  as  night-serenades,  or  any  Jacques- 
like  meditations  in  the  forest ;  but  it  is  a  quiet,  still 
joy,  that  floats  on  your  hope,  into  the  years  to  come,— 
making  the  prospect  all  sunny  and  joyful. 

It  is  a  kind  of  oil  and  balm  for  whatever  was- 
stormy,  or  harmful  ;  it  gives  a  permanence  to  the 
smile  of  existence.  It  does  not  make  the  sea  of  your 
life  turbulent  with  high  emotions,  as  if  a  strong  wind 
were  blowing  ; — but  it  is  as  if  an  Aphrodite  had 
broken  on  the  surface,  and  the  ripples  were  spreading 


124      REVERIES     >  F    A    BACHELOR. 

with  a  sweet,  low  sounl,  and  widening  far  out  to  the 
very  shores  of  time. 

There  is  no  need  now,  as  with  the  boy,  to  bolster 
np  your  feelings  with  extravagant  vows  :  even  should 
you  try  this  in  her  presence,  the  words  are  lacking  to 
put  such  vows  in.  So  soon  as  you  reach  them,  thoy 
fail  you  :  and  the  oath  only  quivers  on  the  lip,  or  tells 
its  story  by  a  pressure  of  the  fingers.  You  wear  a 
brusque,  pleasant  air  with  your  acquaintances,  and 
hint — with  a  sly  look — at  possible  changes  in  your 
circumstances.  Of  an  evening,  you  are  kind  to  the 
most  unattractive  of  the  wall-flowers, — if  only  your 
Nelly  is  away  ;  and  you  have  a  sudden  charity  for 
street  beggars,  with  pale  children.  You  catch  your 
self  taking  a  step  in  one  of  the  new  Polkas,  upon  a 
country  walk  :  and  wonder  immensely  at  th3  number 
of  bright  days  which  succeed  each  other,  without 
leaving  a  single  stormy  gap,  for  your  old  melancholy 
moods.  Even  the  chambermaids  at  your  hotel,  never 
did  their  duty  one  half  so  well  ;  and  as  for  your  man 
Tom,  he  is  become  a  perfect  pattern  of  a  fellow. 

My  cigar  is  in  a  fine  glow ;  but  it  has  gone  out 
once,  and  it  may  go  put  again. 

You  begin  to  talk  of  marriage  ;  but  some 

obstinate  Papa,  or  guardian  uncle  think  that  it  will 
never  do  ; — that  it  is  quite  too  soon,  or  that  Nolly  is 
a  more  girl.  Or  some  of  your  wild  oats, — quite 


AV  i  T  11    A    \Y  j  s  L>    o  r    PAPER.         125 

forgotten  by  yourself, — shoot  up  en  the  vision  of  a 
staid  Mamma,,  and  throw  a  very  damp  shadow  on 
your  character.  Or  the  old  lady  has  an  ambition  of 
another  sort,  which  you,  a  simple,  earnest,  plodding, 
bachelor,  can  never  gratify  ; — being  of  only  passable 
appearance,  and  unschooled  in  the  fashions  of  the 
world,  you  will  be  eternally  rubbing  the  elbows  of  the 
old  lady's  pride. 

All  this  will  be  strangely  afflictive  to  one  who  has 
been  living  for  quite  a  number  of  weeks,  or  months, 
in  a  pleasant  dream-land,  where  there  were  no  n've 
per  cents,  or  reputations,  but  only  a  very  full,  and 
delirious  flow  of  feeling.  What  care  you  for  any 
position,  except  a  position  near  the  being  that  you 
love  ?  What  wealth  do  you  prize,  except  a  wealth  of 
heart,  that  shall  never  know  diminution  ; — or  for 
reputation,  except  that  of  truth,  and  of  honor  ?  How 
hard  it  would  break  upon  these  pleasant  idealities,  to 
have  a  weazen  faced  old  guardian,  set  his  arm  in 
yours,  and  tell  you  how  tenderly  he  has  at  heart  the 
happiness  of  his  niece  ; — -and  reason  with  you  about 
your  very  small,  and  sparse  dividends,  arid  your 
limited  business  ; — and  caution  you, — for  he  has  a 
lively  regard  for  your  interests, — about  continuing 
your  addresses  ! 

The  kind  old  curmudgeon  ! 

Your  man  Tom  has  grown  suddenly  a  very  stupid 


126     REVERIES    OF     A    BACHELOR. 

fellow ;  and  all  your  charity  for  withered  wall-flowers, 
is  gone.  Perhaps  in  your  wrath  the  suspicion  comes 
over  you,  that  she  too  wishes  yon  were  something 
higher,  or  more  famous,  or  richer,  or  anything  but  what 
you  are  ! — a  very  dangerous  suspicion  :  for  no  man 
with  any  true  nobility  of  soul,  can  ever  make  his 
heart  the  slave  of  another's  condescension. 

But  no, — you  will  not,  you  cannot  believe  this  of 
Nelly; — that  face  of  hers  is  too  mild  and  gracious; 
and  her  manner,  as  she  takes  your  hand,  after  your 
heart  is  mads  sad,  and  turns  away  those  rich  blue 
eyes, — shadowed  more  deeply  than  ever  by  the  long 
and  moistened  fringe  ; — and  the  .exquisite  softness,  and 
meaning  of  the  pressure  of  those  little  fingers ; — and 
the  low,  half  sob  ;  and  the  heaving  of  that  bosom,  in 
its  struggles  between  love,  and  duty, — all  forbid. 
Nelly,  you  could  swear,  is  tenderly  indulgent,  like  the 
fond  creature  that  she  is,  toward  all  your  short -com 
ings;  and  would  not  barter  your  strong  love,  and 
your  honest  heart,  for  the  greatest  magnate  in  the 
land. 

What  a  spur  to  effort  is  the  confiding  love  of  a  true- 
hearted  woman  !  That  last  fond  look  of  hers,  hope 
ful,  and  encouraging,  has  more  powar  within  it  to 
nerve  your  soul  to  high  deeds,  than  all  the  admoni 
tions  of  all  your  tutors.  Your  heart,  beating  large 
with  hope,  quickens  the  flow  upon  the  brain  ;  and 


WITH    A    WISP    OF    PAPER.          127 

you  make  wild  vows  to  win  greatness.     But  alas,  this 
is  a  great  world — very  full,  and  very  rough  ; 

all  up-hill  work  when  we  would  do ; 


All  down-hill,  when  we  suffer.* 

Hard,  withering  toil  only  can  achieve  a  name  ;  and 
long  days,  and  months,  and  years,  must  be  passed  in 
the  chase  of  that  bubble — reputation  ;  which  when 
once  grasped,  breaks  in  your  eager  clutch,  into  a 
hundred  lesser  bubbles,  that  soar  above  you  still ! 

A  clandestine  meeting  from  time  to  time,  and  a 
note  or  two  tenderly  written,  keep  up  the  blaze  in 
your  heart.  But  presently,  the  lynx-eyed  old  guar 
dian — so  tender  of  your  interests,  and  hers, — forbids 
even  this  irregular  and  unsatisfying  correspondence. 
Now  you  can  feed  yourself  only  on  stray  glimpses  of 
her  figure — as  full  of  sprightliness  and  grace,  as  ever  j 
and  that  beaming  face,  you  are. half  sorry  to  see  from 
time  to  time, — still  beautiful.  liTou  struggle  with  your 
moods  of  melancholy,  and  wear  bright  looks  yourself — 
bright  to  her,  and  very  bright  to  the  eye  of  the  old 
curmudgeon,  who  has  snatched  your  heart  away.  It 
will  never  do  to  show  your  weakness  to  a  man. 

At  length,  on  some  pleasant  morning,  you  learn 
that  she  is.  gone, — too  far  away  to  be  seen,  too 


*  Festus. 


128          11   E  V  E  R  i  L  S     OF     A     13  A  C  11  E  L  0  Jl . 

closely  guarded  to  be  readied.  For  a  while  you 
throw  down  your  books,  and  abandon  your  toil  in 
despair, — thinking  very  bitter  thoughts,  and  making 
very  helpless  resolves. 

My  cigar  is  still  burning  ;  but  it  will  require  con 
stant  and  strong  respiration,  to  keep  it  in  a  glow. 

A  letter  or  two  dispatched  at  random,  relieve  the 
excess  of  your  fever  ;  until  with  practice,  these  ran 
dom  letters  have  even  less  heat  in  them,  than  the 
heat  of  your  study,  or  of  your  business.  Grief — 
thank  God  ! — is  not  so  progressive,  or  so  cumulative 
as  joy.  For  a  time,  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  mood, 
with  which  you  recal  your  broken  hopes ;  and  with 
which  you  selfishly  link  hers  to  the  shattered  wreck ; 
but  absence,  and  ignorance  tame  the  point  of  your 
woe.  You  call  up  the  image  of  Nelly,  adorning  other 
and  distant  scenes.  You  see  the  tearful  smile  give 
place  to  a  blithesome  cheer  ;  and  the  thought  of  you 
that  shaded  her  fair  face  so  long,  fades  under  the  sun 
shine  of  gaiety  ;  or  at  best,  it  only  seems  to  cross 
that  white  fore-head,  like  a  playful  shadow,  that  a 
fleecy  cloud-remnant  will  fling  upon  a  sunny  lawn. 

As  for  you,  the  world  with  its  whirl  and  roar,  is 
deafening  the  sweet,  distant  notes,  that  come  up 
through  old,  choked  channels  of  the  affections.  Life 
is  calling  for  earnestness,  and  not  for  regrets.  So 
the  months,  and  the  years  slip  by  ;  your  bachelor 


WITH    A    WISP    OF    PAPER.        129 

habit  grows  easy  and  light  with  wearing  ;  you  have 
mourned  enough,  to  smile  at  the  violent  mourning  of 
others  ;  and  you  have  enjoyed  enough,  to  sigh  over 
their  little  eddies  of  delight.  Dark  shades,  and  deli 
cious  streaks  of  crimson  and  gold  colour  lie  upon  your 
life.  Your  heart  with  all  its  weight  of  ashes,  can  yet 
sparkle  at  the  sound  of  a  fairy  step  ;  and  your  face 
can  yet  open  into  a  round  of  joyous  smiles, — that  are 
almost  hopes, — in  the  presence  of  some  bright-eyed 
girl. 

But  amid  this,  there  will  float  over  you  from  time 
to  time,  a  midnight  trance,  in  which  you  will  hear 
again  with  a  thirsty  ear,  the  witching  melody  of  the 
days  that  are  gone  ;  and  you  will  wake  from  it  with  a 
shudder  into  the  cold  resolves  of  your  lonely,  and 
manly  life.  But  the  shudder  passes  as  easy  as  night 
from  morning.  Tearful  regrets,  and  memories  that 
touch  to  the  quick,  are  dull  weapons  to  break  through 
the  panoply  of  your  scared,  eager,  and  ambitious 
manhood.  They  only  venture  out  like  timid,  white- 
winged  flies,  when  night  is  come  ;  and  at  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  dawn,  they  shrivel  up,  and  lie  without  a 
flutter,  in  some  corner  of  your  soul. 

And  when,  years  after,  you  learn  that  she  has  re 
turned — a  woman,  there  is  a  slight  glow,  but  no 
tumultuous  bound  of  the  heart.  Life,  and  time 
have  worried  you  down  like  a  spent  hound.  The 
6* 


130      REVERIES    3  r    A    BACHELOR. 

world  has  given  you  a  habit  of  easy  and  unmeaning 
smiles.  You  half  accuse  yourself  of  ingratitude  and 
forgetfulness  ;  but  the  accusation  does  not  oppress 
you.  It  does  not  even  distract  your  attention  from 
the  morning  journal.  You  cannot  work  yourself  into 
a  respectable  degree  of  indignation  against  the  old 
gentleman — her  guardian. 

You  sigh — poor  thing  ! — and  in  a  very  flashy 
waistcoat,  you  venture  a  morning  call. 

She  meets  you  kindly, — a  comely,  matronly  dame 
in  gingham,  with  her  curls  all  gathered  under  a  high- 
topped  comb  ;  and  she  presents  to  you  two  little  boys 
in  smart  crimson  jackets,  dressed  up  with  braid.  And 
you  dine  with  Madame — a  family  party  ;  and  the 
weazon-faced  old  gentleman  meets  you  with  a  most 
pleasant  shake  of  the  hand, — hints  that  you  were 
among  his  niece's  earliest  friends,,  and  hopes  that  you 
are  getting  on  well  ? 

Capitally  well  ! 

And  the  boys  toddle  in  at  dessert — Dick  to  get  a 
plum  from  your  own  dish  ;  Tom  to  be  kissed  by  his 
rosy-faced  papa.  In  short,  you  are  made  perfectly 
at  home  ;  and  you  sit  over  your  wine  for  an  hour,  in 
a  cozy  smoke  with  the  gentlemanly  uncle,  and  with 
the  very  courteous  husband  of  your  second  flame. 

It  is  all  very  jovial  at  the  table  ;  for  good  wine,  is 
I  find,  a  great  strengthener  of  the  bachelor  heart. 


WITH    A    WISP    OF    PAPER.         131 

But  afterward,  wlicn  night  has  fairly  set  in,  and  the 
blaze  of  your  fire  goes  flickering  over  your  lonely 
quarters,  you  heave  a  deep  sigh.  And  as  your 
thought  runs  back  to  the  perfidious  Louise,  and  calls 
up  the  married,  and  matronly  Nelly,  you  sob  over 
that  poor  dumb  heart  within  you,  which  craves  so 
madly  a  free  and  joyous  utterance  !  And  as  you  lean 
over  with  your  forehead  in  your  hands,  and  your  eyes 
fall  upon  the  old  hound  slumbering  on  the  rug, — the 
tears  start,  and  you  wish, — that  you  had  married 
years  ago  ; — and  that  you  too  had  your  pair  of  prat 
tling  boys,  to  drive  away  the  loneliness  of  your  soli 
tary  hearth  stone. 

My  cigar  would    not  go  ;  it    was    fairly  out. 

But  with  true  bachelor  obstinacy,  I  vowed  that  I 
would  light  again. 


m. 

LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH. 

I  II ATE  a  match.  I  feel  sure  that  brimstone 
matches  were  never  made  in  heaven  ;  and  it  is 
gad  to  think,  that  with  few  exceptions,  matches  are  all 
of  them  tipped  with  brimstone. 

But  my  taper  having  burned  out,  and  the  coals 
being  all  dead  upon  the  hearth,  a  match  is  all  that  is 
left  to  me. 

All  matches  will  not  blaze  on  the  first  trial ;  and 
there  are  those,  that  with  the  most  indefatigable 
coaxings,  never  show  a  spark.  They  may  indeed 
leave  in  their  trail  phosphorescent  streaks  ;  but  you 
can  no  more  light  your  cigar  at  them,  than  you  can 
kindle  your  heart,  at  the  covered  wife-trails,  which 
the  infernal,  gossipping,  old  match-makers  will  lay 
in  your  path. 


L  I  G  11  T  E  D      W  I  T  II     A     M  A  T  C  II  .  133 

Was  there  ever  a  bachelor  of  seven  and  twenty,  I 
wonder,  who  has  not  been  haunted  by  pleasant  old 
ladies,  and  trim,  excellent,  good-natured,  married 
friends,  who  talk  to  him  about  nice  matches — '  very 
nice  matches,' — matches,  which  never  gooff?  And 
who,  pray,  has  not  had  some  kind  old  uncle,  to  fill 
two  sheets  for  him,  (perhaps  in  the  time  of  heavy 
postages)  about  some  most  eligible  connection, — '  of 
highly  respectable  parentage  !' 

What  a  delightful  thing,  surely,  for  a  withered 
bachelor,  to  bloom  forth  in  the  dignity  of  an  ances 
tral  tree  !  What  a  precious  surprise  for  him,  who 
has  all  his  life  worshipped  the  -wing-heeled  Mercury, 
to  find  on  a  sudden,  a  great  stock  of  preserved,  and 
most  respectable  Penates  ! 

In  God's  name, — thought  I,  puffing  vehement 
ly, — what  is  a  man's  heart  given  him  for,  if  not  to 
choose,  where  his  heart's  blood,  every  drop  of  it  is 
flowing  ?  Who  is  going  to  dam  these  billowy  tides  of 
the  soul,  whose  roll  is  ordered  by  a  planet  greater 
than  the  moon  ; — and  that  planet — Venus  ?  Who  is 
going  to  shift  this  vane  of  my  desires,  when  every 
breeze  that  passes  in  my  heaven  is  keeping  it  all  the 
more  strongly,  to  its  fixed  bearings  ? 

Beside  this,  there  are  the  money  matches,  urged 
upon  you  by  disinterested  bachelor  friends,  who 
would  be  very  proud  to  see  you  at  the  head  of  an 


134      R  E  v  E  R I  ]•:  s    o  F    A    BACHELOR  . 

establishment.  And  I  must  confess  that  this  kind  of 
talk  has  a  pleasant  jingle  about  it ;  and  is  one  of  the 
cleverest  aids  to  a  bachelor's  day-dreams,  that  can 
well  be  imagined.  And  let  not  the  pouting  lady 
condemn  me,  without  a  hearing. 

It  is  certainly  cheerful  to  think, — for  a  contempla 
tive  bachelor, — that  the  pretty  ermine  which  so  sets 
off  the  transparent  hue  of  your  imaginary  wife,  or  the 
lace  which  lies  so  bewitchirigly  upon  the  superb 
roundness  of  her  form, — or  the  graceful  boddice, 
trimmed  to  a  line,  which  is  of  such  exquisite  adapta 
tion  to  her  lithe  figure,  will  be  always  at  her  com 
mand  ; — nay,  that  these  are  only  units  among  the 
chameleon  hues,  under  which  you  shall  feed  upon  her 
beauty  !  I  want  to  know  if  it  is  not  a  pretty  cabinet 
picture,  for  fancy  to  luxuriate  upon — that  of  a  sweet 
wife,  who  is  cheating  hosts  of  friends  into  love,  sym 
pathy  and  admiration,  by  the  modest  munificence  of 
her  wealth  ?  Is  it  not  rather  agreeable,  to  feed  your 
hopeful  soul  upon  that  abundance,  which,  while  it 
supplies  her  need,  will  give  a  range  to  her  loving 
charities ; — which  will  keep  from  her  brow  the 
shadows  of  anxiety,  and  will  sublime  her  gentle  na 
ture,  by  adding  to  it  the  grace  of  an  angel  of  mercy  ? 
Is  it  not  rich,  in  those  days  when  the  pestilent  hu 
mours  of  bachelorhood  hang  heavy  on  you,  to  foresee  in 
that  shadowy  realm,  whore  hope  is  a  native,  the  quiet 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH.        135 

of  a  home,  made  splendid  with  attractions  ;  and  made 
real,  by  the  presence  of  her,  who  bestows  them  ? — 
Upon  my  word — thought  I,  as  I  continued  puffing, — 
such  a  match  must  make  a  very  grateful  lighting  of 
one's  inner  sympathies ;  nor  am  I  prepared  to  say, 
that  such  associations  would  not  add  force  to  the  most 
abstract  love  imaginable. 

Think  of  it  for  a  moment ; — what  is  it,  that  we 
poor  fellows  love  ?  We  love,  if  one  may  judge  for 
himself,  over  his  cigar, — gentleness,  beauty,  refine 
ment,  generosity,  and  intelligence, — and  far  above 
these,  a  returning  love,  made  up  of  all 'these  qualities, 
and  gaining  upon  your  love,  day. by  day,  and  month 
by  month,  like  a  sunny  morning,  gaming  upon  the 
frosts  of  night. 

But  wealth  is  a  great  means  of  refinement ;  and  it 
is  a  security  for  gentleness,  since  it  removes  disturb 
ing  anxieties  ;  and  it  is  a  pretty  promoter  of  intelli 
gence,  since  it  multiplies  the  avenues  for  its  recep 
tion  ;  and  it  is  a  good  basis  for  a  generous  habit  of 
life ;  it  even  equips  beauty,  neither  hardening  its 
hand  with  toil,  nor  tempting  the  wrinkles  to  come 
early.  But  whether  it  provokes  greatly  that  return 
ing  passian, — that  abnegation  of  soul, — that  sweet 
trustfulness,  and  abiding  affection,  which  are  to  clothe 
your  heart  with  joy,  is  far  more  doubtful.  Wealth 
while  it  gives  so  much,  asks  much  in  return  ;  and 


136       REVERIES   OF    A    13  A  c  H  E  i  o  R  . 

the  soul  that  is  grateful  to  mammoii,  is  not  over 
ready  to  be  grateful  for  intensity  of  love.  It  is  hard 
to  gratify  those,  who  have  nothing  left  to  gratify. 

Heaven  help  the  man  "who  having  wearied  his  soul 
with  delays  and  doubts,  or  exhausted  the  freshness, 
and  exuberance  of  his  youth, — by  a  hundred  little 
dallyings  of  love, — consigns  himself  at  length  to  the 
issues  of  what  people  call  a  nice  match — whether  of 
money,  or  of  family  ! 

Heaven  help  you — (I  brushed  the  ashes  from  my 
cigar)  when  you  begin  to  regard  marriage  as  only  a 
respectable  institution,  and  under  the  advices  of  staid 
old  friends,  begin  to  look  about  you  for  some  very 
respectable  wife.  You  may  admire  her  figure,  and 
her  family ;  and  bear  pleasantly  in  mind  the  very 
casual  mention  which  has  been  made  by  some  of 
your  penetrating  friends, — that  she  has  large  expec 
tations.  You  think  that  she  would  make  a  very 
capital  appearance  at  the  head  of  your  table ;  nor  in 
the  event  of  your  coming  to  any  public  honor,  would 
she  make  you  blush  for  her  breeding.  She  talks 
well,  exceedingly  well ;  iind  her  face  has  its  charms  ; 
especially  under  a  little  excitement.  Her  dress  is 
elegant,  and  tasteful,  and  she  is  constantly  remarked 
upon  by  all  your  friends,  as  a  i  nice  person.'  Some 
good  old  lady,  in  whoso  pew  she  occasionally  sits  on  a 
Sunday,  or  to  whom  she  has  sometime  sent  a  papier 


L  I  G  H  T  ED     \\  I  T  II     A     MATCH.  137 

mache  card-case,  for  the  show-box  of  some  Dorcas 
benevolent  society,  thinks, — with  a  sly  wink, — that 
she  would  make  a  fine  wife  for — somebody. 

She  certainly  has  an  elegant  figure  ;  and  the  mar 
riage  of  some  half  dozen  of  your  old  flames,  warn  you 
that  time  is  slipping  and  your  chances  failing.  And 
in'  the  pleasant  warmth  of  some  after-dinner  mood, 
you  resolve — with  her  image  in  her  prettiest  pelisse 
drifting  across  your  brain-— that  you  will  marry. 
Now  comes  the  pleasant  excitement  of  the  chase  ; 
and  whatever  family  dignity  may  surround  her,  only 
adds  to  the  pleasurable  glow  of  the  pursuit.  You 
give  an  hour  more  to  your  toilette,  and  a  hundred  or 
two  more,  a  year,  to  your  tailor.  All  is  orderly, 
dignified,  and  gracious.  Charlotte  is  a  sensible  wo 
man,  every  body  says  ;  and  you  believe  it  yourself. 
You  agree  in  your  talk  about  books,  and  churches, 
and  flowers.  Of  course  she  has  good  taste — for  she 
accepts  you.  The  acceptance  is  dignified,  elegant, 
and  even  courteous. 

You  receive  numerous  congratulations  ;  and  your 
old  friend  Tom  writes  you — that  he  hears  you  are 
going  to  marry  a  splendid  woman  ;  and  all  the  old 
ladies  say — what  a  capital  match  !  And  your  busi 
ness  partner,  who  is  a  married  man,  and  something 
of  a  wag — '  sympathizes  sincerely.'  Upon  the  whole, 
you  feel  a  little  prou'?  of  your  arrangement.  You 


138      REVERIES    OF    A    BAG   IELOK. 

write  to  an  old  friend  in  the  country,  that  you  are  to 
marry  presently  Miss  Charlotte  of  such  a  street, 
whose  father  was  something  very  fine,  in  his  way ; 
and  whose  father  before  him  was  very  distinguished ; 
— you  add,  in  a  postscript,  that  she  is  easily  situated, 
and  has  '  expectations.'  Your  friend,  who  has  a-  wife 
that  he  loves,  and  that  loves  him,  writes  back  kindly 
— '  hoping  you  may  be  happy  ;'  and  hoping  so  your 
self,  you  light  your  cigar, — one  of  your  last  bachelor 
cigars, — with  the  margin  of  his  letter. 

Tfye  match  goes  off  with  a  brilliant  marriage  ; — at 
which  you  receive  a  very  elegant  welcome  from  your 
wife's  spinster  cousins, — and  drink  a  great  deal  of 
champagne  with  her  bachelor  uncles.  And  as  you 
take  the  dainty  hand  of  your  bride, — very  magnifi 
cent  under  that  bridal  wreath,  and  with  her  face  lit 
up  by  a  brilliant  glow, — your  eye,  and  your  soul,  for 
the  first  time,  grow  full.  And  as  your  arm  circles 
that  elegant  figure,  and  you  draw  her  toward  you, 
feeling  that  she  is  yours, — there  is  a  bound  at  your 
heart,  that  makes  you  think  your  soul-life  is  now 
whole,  and  earnest.  All  your  early  dreams,  and  im 
aginations,  come  flowing  on  your  thought,  like  be 
wildering  music  ;  and  as  you  gaze  upon  her, — the  ad 
miration  of  that  crowd, — it  seems  to  you,  that  all  that 
your  heart  prizes,  is  made  good  by  the  accident  of 
marriage. 


LIGHTED    vv  i  T  n    A    MATCH.        139 

— Ah — thought  I,  brushing  off  the  ashes  again, — 
bridal  pictures  are  not  home  pictures ;  and  the  hour 
at  the  altar,  is  but  a  poor  type  of  the  waste  of  years  ! 

Your  household  is  elegantly  ordered  ;  Charlotte 
has  secured  the  best  of  housekeepers,  and  she  meets 
the  compliments  of  your  old  friends  who  come  to  dine 
with  you,  with  a  suavity,  that  is  never  at  fault.  And 
they  tell  you, — after  the  cloth  is  removed,  and  you 
sit  quietly  smoking  in  memory  of  the  old  times, — 
that  she  is  a  splendid  woman.  Even  the  old  ladies 
who  come  for  occasional  charities,  think  Madame  a 
pattern  of  a  lady  ;  and'  so  think  her  old  admirers, 
whom  she  receives  still  with  an  easy  grace,  that  half 
puzzles  you.  And  as  you  stand  by  the  ball  room 
door,  at  two  of  the  morning,  with  your  Charlotte's 
shawl  upon  your  arm,  some  little  panting  fellow  will 
confirm  the  general  opinion,  by  telling  you  that 
Madame  is  a  magnificent  dancer ;  and  Monsieur  le 
Comte,  will  praise  extravagantly  her  French.  You 
are  grateful  for  all  this ;  but  you  have  an  uncom 
monly  serious  way  of  expressing  your  gratitude. 

You  think  you  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  fellow ; 
and  yet  long  shadows  do  steal  over  your  thought; 
and  you  wonder  that  the  sight  of  your  Charlotte  in 
the  dress  you  used  to  admire  so  much,  does  not  scat 
ter  them  to  the  winds  ;  but  it  does  not.  You  feel 
coy  about  putting  your  arm  around  that  delicately 


140       11  E  V  E  R  I  E  S     0  P      A      13 


A  C  II  E  L  O  K  . 


robed  figure, — you  might  derange  the  plaitings  of  hei 
dress.  She  is  civil  towards  you  ;  and  tender  towards 
your  bachelor  friends.  She  talks  with  dignity, — ad 
justs  her  lace  cape, — and  hopes  you  will  make  a 
figure  in  the  world,  for  the  sake  of  the  family.  Her 
cheek  is  never  soiled  with  a  tear ;  and  her  smiles  are 
frequent,  especially  when  you  have  some  spruce 
young  fellows  at  your  table. 

You  catch  sight  of  occasional  notes  perhaps,  whose 
superscription  you  do  not  know  ;  and  some  of  her  ad 
mirers'  attentions  become  so  pointed,  and  constant, 
that  your  pride  is  stirred.  It  would  be  silly  to  show 
jealousy  ;  but  you  suggest  to  your  '  dear' — as  you 
sip  your  tea, — the  slight  impropriety  of  her  action. 

Perhaps  you  fondly  long  for  some  little  scene,  as  a 
proof  of  wounded  confidence  ; — but  no — nothing  of 
that;  she  trusts,  (calling  you  '  my  dear,')  that  she 
knows  how  to  sustain  the  dignity  of  her  position. 

You  are  too  sick  at  heart,  for  comment,  or  for 
reply. 

And  is  this  the  intertwining  of  soul,  of  which 

you  had  dreamed  in  the  days  that  are  gone  ?  Is  this 
the  blending  of  sympathies  that  was  to  steal  from  life 
its  bitterness  ;  and  spread  over  care  and  suffering,  the 
sweet,  ministering  hand  of  kindness,  and  of  love  ? 
Aye,  you  may  well  wander  back  to  your  bachelor 
club,  and  make  the  hours  long  at  the  journals,  or  at 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH.          41 

play — killing  the  flagging  lapse  of  your  life  !  Talk 
sprightly  with  your  old  friends, — and  mimic  the  joy 
you  have  not ;  or  you  will  wear  a  bad  name  upon 
your  hearth,  and  head.  Never  suffer  your  Charlotte 
to  catch  sight  of  the  tears  which  in  bitter  hours,  may 
start  from  your  eye  ;  or  to  hear  the  sighs  which  in 
your  times  of  solitary  musings,  may  break  forth  sud 
den,  and  heavy.  Go  on  counterfeiting  your  life,  as 
you  have  begun.  It  was  a  nice  match  ;  and  you  are 
a  nice  husband  ! 

But  you  have  a  little  boy,  thank  God,  toward 
whom  your  heart  runs  out  freely  ;  and  you  love  to 
catch  him  in  his  respite  from  your  well-ordered  nur 
sery,  and  the  tasks  of  his  teachers — alone  ; — and  to 
spend  upon  him  a  little  of  that  depth  of  feeling, 
which  through  so  many  years  has  scarce  been  stirred. 
You  play  with  him  at  his  games  ;  you  fondle  him  ; 
you  take  him  to  your  bosom. 

— But  papa— he  says- -see  how  you  have  tumbled 
my  collar.  What  shall  I  tell  mamma  ? 

Tell  her,  my  boy,  that  I  love  you  ! 

Ah,  thought  I — (my  cigar  was  getting  dull,  and 
nauseous,) — is  there  not  a  spot  in  your  heart,  that 
the  gloved  hand  of  your  elegant  wife  has  never 
reached  : — that  you  wish  it  might  reach  ? 

You  go  to  see  a  far-away  friend  :  his  was  not  a 
'  nice  match  :'  he  was  married  years  before  you  :  and 


142      REVERIES    OF    A    .1  A  c  :•:  E  L  o  R  . 

yet  the  beaming  looks  of  his  wife,  and  his  lively 
smile,  are  as  fresh  and  honest  as  they  were  years 
ago  ;  and  they  make  you  ashamed  of  your  disconso 
late  humour.  Your  stay  is  lengthened,  but  the 
home  letters  are  not  urgent  for  your  return  :  yet 
they  are  marvellously  proper  letters,  and  rounded 
with  a, French  adieu.  You  could  have  wished  a  little 
scrawl  from  your  boy  at  the  bottom,  in  the  place  of 
the  postscript  which  gives  you  the  names  of  a  new 
opera  troupe  ;  and  you  hint  as  much — a  very  bold 
stroke  for  you. 

Ben, — she  says, — writes  too  shamefully. 

And  at  your  return,  there  is  no  great  anticipation 
of  delight ;  in  contrast  with  the  old  dreams,  that  a 
pleasant  summer's  journey  has  called  up,  your  parlour 
as  you  enter  it — so  elegant,  so  still — so  modish — 
seems  the  charnel-house  of  your  heart. 

By  and  by,  you  fall  into  weary  days  of  sickness  ; 
you  have  capital  nurses — nurses  highly  recommend 
ed — nurses  who  never  make  mistakes — nurses  who 
have  served  long  in  the  family.  But  alas  for  that 
heart  of  sympathy,  and  for  that  sweet  face,  shaded 
with  your  pain — like  a  soft  landscape  with  flying 
clouds — you  have  none  of  them  !  Your  pattern  wife 
may  come  in  from  time  to  time  to  look  after  your 
nurse,  or  to  ask  after  your  sleep,  arid  glide  out — her 
silk  dress  rustling  upon  the  door — like  dead  leaves 


LIGHTED    WITH    A    MATCH.          1 43 

in  the  cool  night  breezes  of  winter.  Or  perhaps 
after  putting  this  chair  in  its  place, and  adjusting  to  a 
more  tasteful  fold  that  curtain — she  will  ask  you,  with 
a  tone  that  might  mean  sympathy,  if  it  were  not  a 
stranger  to  you, — if  she  can  do  anything  more. 

Thank  her — as  kindly  as  you  can,  and  close  your 
eyes,  and  dream  : — or  rouse  up,  to  lay  your  hand 
upon  the  head  of  your  little  boy, — to  drink  in  health, 
and  happiness,  from  his  earnest  look,  as  he  gazes 
strangely  upon  your  pale  and  shrunken  forehead. 
Your  smile  even,  ghastly  with  long  suffering,  disturbs 
him  ;  there  is  no  interpreter,  save  the  heart,  between 
you. 

Your  parched  lips  feel  strangely,  to  his  flushed, 
healthful  face  ;  and  he  steps  about  on  tip-toe,  at  a 
motion  from  the  nurse,  to  look  at  all  those  rosy- 
colored  medicines  upon  the  table, — and  he  takes 
your  cane  from  the  corner,  and  passes  his  hand  over 
the  smooth  ivory  head  ;  and  he  runs  his  eye  along  the 
wall  from  picture  to  picture,  till  it  rests  on  one  he 
knows, — a  figure  in  bridal  dress, — beautiful,  almost 
fond  ; — and  he  forgets  himself,  and  says  aloud — 
4  there's  mamma  !' 

The  nurse  puts  her  finger  to  her  lip ;  you  waken 
from  your  doze  to  see  where  your  eager  boy  is  look 
ing  ;  and  your  eyes  too,  take  in  much  as  they  can  of 


144        11  E  V  E  R.I.^.-S      OF      A      13  A  C  II  E  L  0  R  . 

that  figure — now  shadowy  to  your  fainting  vision — 
doubly  shadowy  to  your  fainting  heart ! 

From  day  to  day,  you  sink  from  life :  the  physician 
says  the  end  is  not  far  off;  why  should  it  be? 
There  is  very  little  elastic  force  within  you  to  keep 
the  end  away.  Madame  is  called,  and  your  little 
boy.  Your  sight  is  dim,  but  they  whisper  that  she 
is  beside  your  bed ;  and  you  reach  out  your  hand — 
both  hands.  You  fancy  you  hear  a  sob  : — a  strange 
sound  !  It  seems  as  if  it  came  from  distant  years — 
a  confused,  broken  sigh,  sweeping  over  the  long 
stretch  of  your  life  :  and  a  sigh  from  your  heart — 
not  audible — answers  it. 

Your  trembling  fingers  clutch  the  hand  of  your 
little  boy,  and  you  drag  him  toward  you,  and  move 
your  lips,  as  if  you  would  speak  to  him  ;  and  they 
place  his  head  near  you,  so  that  you  feel  his  fine  hair 

brushing  your  cheek. My  boy,  you  must  love — 

your  mother ! 

Your  other  hand  feels  a  quick,  convulsive  grasp, 
and  something  like  a  tear  drops  upon  your  face. 
Good  God  ! — Can  it  be  indeed  a  tear  ? 

You  strain  your  vision,  and  a  feeble  smile  flits 
over  your  features,  as  you  seem  to  see  her  figure — 
the  figure  of  the  painting — bending  over  you  ;  and 
you  feel  a  bound  at  your  heart — tho  sarno  bound  that 
you  frit  on  your  bridal  morning  ; — tho  smiie  bound 


LIGHTED    WITH 


which  you  usecU^to  feel  in  the  spring-time  of  your 
life. 

Only  one — rich,  full  bound  of  the  heart ; 

that  is  all ! 

My  cigar  was  out.  I  could  not  have  lit  it 

again,  if  I  would.  It  was  wholly  burned. 


"  Aunt  Tabithy" — said  I,  as  I  finished  reading, — 
"  may  I  smoke  now  under  your  rose  tree  ?" 

Aunt  Tabithy  who  had  laid  down  her  knitting  to 
hear  me, — smiled, — brushed  a  tear  from  her  old 
eyes, — said, — "  Yes — Isaac,"  and  having  scratched 
the  back  of  her  head,  with  the  disengaged  needle, 
resumed  her  knitting. 


Iburtl) 

ing,  Noon,  nnii 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  EVENING. 


IT  is  a  Spring  day  under  the  oaks — the  loved  oaks 
of  a  once   cherished  home, — now  alas,  mine  no 
longer  ! 

I  had  sold  the  old  farm-house,  and  the  groves, 
and  the  cool  springs,  where  1  had  bathed  my  head  in 
the  heats  of  summer ;  and  with  the  first  warm  days 
of  May,  they  were  to  pass  from  me  forever.  Seventy 
years  they  had  been  in  the  possession  of  my  mother's 
family  ;  for  seventy  years,  they  had  borne  the  same 
name  of  proprietorship  ;  for  seventy  years,  the  Lares 
of  our  country  home,  often  neglected,  almost  forgot 
ten, — yet  brightened  from  time  to  time,  by  gleams 
of  heart-worship,  had  held  their  place  in  the  sweet 
valley  of  Elmgrove. 


150     KEVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American  life  of 
ours,  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holiday.  The  hurry 
of  action,  and  progress,  may  pass  over  it  with  quick 
step  ;  but  the  foot-prints  are  many  and  deep.  You 
surely  will  not  wonder  that  it  made  me  sad  and 
thoughtful,  to  break  the  chain  of  years,  that  bound 
to  my  heart,  the  oaks,  the  hills,  the  springs,  the 
valley and  such  a  valley  ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it, — large  enough 
to  make  a  river  for  English  landscape, — winding  be 
tween  rich  banks,  where  in  summer  time,  the  swal 
lows  build  their  nests,  and  brood  by  myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the  margin, 
and  with  their  uplifted  arms,  and  leafy  spray,  throw 
great  patches  of  shade  upon  the  meadow.  Old  lion- 
like  oaks  too,  where  the  meadow-soil  hardens  into 
rolling  upland,  fasten  to  the  ground  with  their  ridgy 
roots;  and  with  their  gray,  scraggy  limbs,  make  de 
licious  shelter  for  the  panting  workers,  or  for  the 
herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream,  where  I  am  lying*,  the 
banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping  hills,  covered  with 
groves  of  oaks,  and  green  pasture  lands,  dotted  with 
mossy  rocks.  And  farther  on,  where  some  wood  has 
been  swept  down,  some  ten  years  gone,  by  the  axe, 
the  new  growth,  heavy  with  the  luxuriant  foliage  of 
spring,  covers  wide  spots  of  the  slantiug  land  ; — while 


M  0  K  N  I  K  G  ,     X  O  0  N      AND     E  V  E  N  1  N  G  .     151 

some  dead  tree  in  the  midst,  still  stretches  out  its 
bare  arms  to  the  blast — a  solitary  mourner,  over  the 
wreck  of  its  forest  brothers. 

Eastward,  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into  wavy  mea 
dows,  upon  whose  farther  edge,  you  see  the  roofs  of 
an  old  mansion,  with  tall  chimneys  and  taller  elm- 
trees  shading  it.  Beyond,  the  hills  rise  gently,  and 
sweep  away  into  wood-crowned  heights,  that  are  blue 
with  distance.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  valley,  the 
stream  is  lost  to  the  eye,  in  a  wide  swamp  wood, 
which  in  the  autumn  time  is  covered  with  a  scarlet 
sheet,  blotched  here  and  there  by  the  dark  crimson 
stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on,  the  hills  crowd 
close  to  the  brook,  and  come  down  with  granite 
boulders,  and  scattered  birch  trees,  and  beeches, — 
under  which,  upon  the  smoky  mornings  of  May,  ] 
have  time  and  again  loitered,  and  thrown  my  line  into 
the  pools,  which  curl,  dark,  and  still,  under  their 
tangled  roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through  the  open 
ings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a  broad  stretch 
of  meadow,  with  glimpses  of  the  silver  surface  of  the 
stream,  and  of  the  giant  solitary  elms,  and  of  some 
old  maple  that  has  yielded  to  the  spring  tides,  and 
now  dips  its  lower  boughs  in  the  insidious  current ; — 
and  of  clumps  of  alders,  and  willow  tufts, — above 
which  even  now,  the  black-and-white  coated  Bob-o'- 


152          11  EYERIES     OF     A     B  A  C  II  E  L  0  R  . 

Lincoln,  is  wheeling  his  musical  flight,  while  his 
quieter  mate  sits  swaying  on  the  topmost  twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  distance  of  me, 
and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude  timber  bridge ;  be 
side  the  bridge,  is  a  broad  glassy  pool,  shaded  by  old 
maples,  and  hickories,  where  the  cattle  drink  each 
morning,  on  their  way  to  the  hill  pastures.  A  step 
or  two  beyond  the  stream,  a  lane  branches  across  the 
meadows,  -to  the  mansion  with  the  tall  chimneys.  I 
can  just  remember  now,  the  stout,  broad-shouldered 
old  gentleman,  with  his  white  hat,  his  long  white 
hair,  and  his  white  headed  cane,  who  built  the  house, 
and  who  farmed  the  whole  valley  around  me.  He  is 
gone,  long  since  ;  and  lies  in  a  grave-yard  looking 
upon  the  sea !  The  elms  that  he  planted  shake  their 
•weird  arms  over  the  mouldering  roofs  ;  and  his  fruit- 
garden  shows  only  a  battered  phalanx  of  mossy  limbs, 
which  will  scarce  tempt  the  July  marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side  the  brook, 
the  road  is  lost  to  view,  among  the  trees  ;  but  if  I 
were  to  follow  the  windings  upon  the  hill-side,  it 
would  bring  me  shortly  upon  the  old  home  of  my 
grandfather  ;  there  is  no  pleasure  in  wandering  there 
now.  The  woods  that  sheltered  it  from  the  northern 
winds,  are  cut  down  ;  the  tall  cherries  that  made  the 
yard  one  leafy  bower,  are  dead.  The  cornice  is 
straggling  from  the  eaves  ;  the  porch  has  fallen  ;  the 


MORNING,  NOON  AND  EVENING.   158 

stone  chimney  is  yawning  with  wide  gaps.  Within, 
it  is  even  worse  ;  the  floors  sway  upon  the  moulder 
ing  beams  ;  the  doors  all  sag  from  their  hinges  ;  the 
rude  frescos  upon  the  parlor-wall  are  peeling  off;  all 

is  going  to  decay. And  my  grandfather  sleeps  in 

a  little  grave-yard,  by  the  garden-wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road,  within  a 
few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back,  along  the  edge  of 
the  meadow,  to  the  homely  cottage,  which  has  been 
my  special  care.  Its  gray  porch,  and  chimney  are 
thrown  into  rich  relief,  by  a  grove  of  oaks  that  skirts 
the  hill  behind  it ;  and  the  doves  are  flying  uneasily 
about  the  open  doors  of  the  granary,  and  barns.  The 
morning  sun  shines  pleasantly  on  the  gray  group  of 
buildings  ;  and  the  lowing  of  the  cows,  not  yet  driven 
afield,  adds  to  the  charming  homeliness  of  the  scene. 
But  alas,  for  the  poor  azalias,  and  laurels,  and  vines, 
that  I  had  put  out  upon  the  little  knoll  before  the 
cottage  door — they  are  all  of  them  trodden  down  ; 
only  one  poor  creeper  hangs  its  loose  tresses  to  the 
lattice,  all  dishevelled,  and  forlorn  ! 

This  bye-lane  which  opens  upon  my  farm-house, 
leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a  grove  of  oaks  ;  the 
brown  gate  swings  upon  an  oak  tree, — the  brown 
gate  closes  upon  an  oak  tree.  There  is  a  rustic  seat, 
built  between  two  veteran  trees,  that  rise  from  a  little 
hillock  near  by.  Half  a  century  ago,  theie  was  a 
7* 


154      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

rustic  seat  on  the  same  hillock — between  the  same 
veteran  trees.  I  can  trace  marks  of  the  old  blotches 
upon  the  bark,  and  the  scars  of  the  nails,  upon  the 
scathed  trunks.  Time,  and  time  again,  it  has  been 
renewed.  This,  the  last,  was  built  by  my  own  hands, 
— a  cheerful,  and  a  holy  duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grandfather  used 
to  loiter  here  with  his  gun,  while  his  hounds  lay 
around  under  the  scattered  oaks.  Now  he  sleeps,  as 
I  said-,  in  the  little  grave-yard  yonder,  where  1  can 
see  one  or  two  white  tablets  glimmering  through  the 
foliage.  I  never  knew  him  ;  he  died,  as  the  brown 
stone  table  says,  aged  twenty-six.  Yesterday  I 
climbed  the  wall  that  skirts  the  yard,  and  plucked  a 
flower  from  his  tomb.  I  take  out  now  from  my 
pocket  book,  that  flower — a  frail,  first-blooming  vio 
let, — and  write  upon  the  slip  of  paper,  into  which  I 
have  thrust  its  delicate  stem, — '  From  my  grand 
father's  tomb  : — 1S50.' 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll — far 
juore  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors  have  some 
times  told  me,  how  they  have  seen,  forty  years  ago, 
two  rosy-faced  girls,  idling  on  this  spot,  under  the 
shade,  and  gathering  acorns,  and  making  oak-leaved 
garlands,  for  their  foreheads. Alas,  alas,  the  gar 
lands  they  wear  now,  are  not  earthly  garlands  ! 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat,  I  am 


MORNING,  NOON  AND  EVENING.    155 

lying  this  May  morning.  I  have  placed  my  gun 
against  a  tree  ;  my  shot-pouch  I  have  hung  upon  a 
broken  limb.  I  have  thrown  my  feet  upon  the  bench, 
and  lean  against  one  of  the  gnarled  oaks,  between 
which  the  seat  is  built.  My  hat  is  off;  my  book  and 
paper,  are  beside  me  ;  and  my  pencil  trembles  in  my 
fingers,  as  I  catch  sight  of  those  white  marble  tablets, 
gleaming  through  the  trees,  from  the  height  above 

me,  like  beckoning  angel  faces. If  they  were 

alive ! — two  more  near,  and  dear  friends,  in  a  world 
where  we  count  friends,  by  units  ! 

It  is  morning, — a  bright  spring  morning  under  the 
oaks — these  loved  oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home. 
Last  night,  I  slept  in  yonder  mansion,  under  the 
elms.  The  cattle  going  to  the  pasture  are  drinking 
in  the  pool  by  the  bridge ;  the  boy  who  drives  them, 
is  making  his  shrill  halloo  echo  against  the  hills. 
The  sun  has  risen  fairly  over  the  eastern  heights, 
and  shines  brightly  upon  the  meadow  land,  and 
brightly  upon  a  bend  of  the  brook  below  me.  The 
birds, — the  blue-birds  sweetest  and  noisiest  of  all, — 
are  singing  over  me  in  the  branches.  A  wood-pecker 
is  hammering  at  a  dry  limb  aloft ;  and  Carlo  pricks 
up  his  ears,  and  listens,  and  looks  at  me, — then 
stretches  out  his  head  upon  his  paws,  in  a  warm  bit 
of  the  sunshine, — and  sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  Past ;  and  the  past 


1  56        R  E  V  E  R  I  E  8     OF     A     B  A  C  II  E  L  O.R 

brings  up  hot  only  its  actualities,  not  only  its  events, 
and  memories,  but — stranger  still, — what  might  have 
been.  Every  little  circumstance  which  dawns  on  the 
awakened  memory,  is  traced  not  only  to  its  actual, 
but  to  its  possible  issues. 

What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the  Past ! — a 
great  and  gorgeous, — a  rich  and  holy  world  !  Your 
fancy  fills  it  up  artist-like  ;  the  darkness  is  mellowed 
off  into  soft  shades  ;  the  bright  spots  are  veiled  in 
the  sweet  atmosphere  of  distance  ;  and  fancy  and 
memory  together,  make  up  a  rich  dream-land  of  the 
past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper  some  of 
the  visions  that  float  across  that  dream-land  of  the 
Morning, — I  will  not — I  cannot  say,  how  much  comes 
fancy-wise,  and  how  much  from  this  vaulting  memory. 
Of  this,  the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be  judge. 


THE    MORNING. 

ISABEL  and  I, — she  is  my  cousin,  and  is  seven 
years  old,  and  I  am  ten, — are  sitting  together  on 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  under  an  oak  tree  that  leans 
half  way  over  to  the  water.  I  am  much  stronger 
than  she,  and  taller  by  a  head.  I  hold  in  my  hands 
a  little  alder  rod,  with  which  I  am  fishing  for  the 
roach  and  minnows,  that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching  the  cork  tossing  on  the  water,  or 
playing  with  the  captured  fish  that  lie  upon  the  bank. 
She  has  auburn  ringlets  that  fall  down  upon  her 
shoulders  ;  and  her  straw  hat  lies  back  upon  them, 
held  only  by  the  strip  of  ribbon,  that  passes  under 
her  chin.  But  the  sun  does  not  shine  upon  her  head  j 
for  the  oak  tree  above  us  is  full  of  leaves  ;  and  only 


158     REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

hero  and  there,  a  dimple  of  the  sunlight  plays  upon 
the  pool,  where  I  am  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright ;  and  now  and  then 
she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of  girlish  curiosity,  as 
I  lift  up  my  rod, — and  again  in  playful  menace,  as 
she  grasps  in  her  little  fingers  one  of  the  dead  fish, 
and  threatens  to  throw  it  back  upon  the  stream. 
Her  little  feet  hang  over  the  edge  of  the  bank  ;  and 
from  time  to  time,  she  reaches  dawn  to  dip  her  toe  in 
the  water  ;  and  laughs  a  girlish  laugh  of  defiance,  as 
I  scold  her  for  frightening  away  the  fishes. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  what  if  you  should  tumble  in  the 
river  ?" 

"But  I  won't." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  should  ?" 

"  Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 

"  But  if  I  wouldn't  pull  you  out  ?" 

"  But  I  know  you  would  ;  wouldn't  you,  Patd  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella  ?" 

"  Because  you  love  Bella." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ?" 

"  Because  once  you  told  me  so  ;  and  because  you 
pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  cannot  reach  ;  and  be 
cause  you  let  me  take  your  rod,  when  you  have  a 
fi.4i  upon  it." 

"  But  that's  no  reason,  Bella." 

"Then  what  is,  Paul?" 


THE  MORNING.  i59 

u  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 

A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long  time  at 
the  bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing  up  and  down  ; — 
and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked,  and  pulls  away  toward 
the  bank,  and  you  cannot  ^ee  the  cork. 

— "  Here,  Bella,  quick  !" — and  she  springs  eagerly 
to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the  rod.  But  the 
fish  has  dragged  it  away  on  the  other  side  of  me  ; 
and  as  she  reaches  farther,  and  farther,  she  slips, 
cries — "  oh,  Paul !" — and  falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came,  was  over 
a  man's  head  ; — it  is  surely  over  little  Isabel's.  I 
fling  down  the  rod,  and  thrusting  one  hand  into  the 
roots  that  support  the  overhanging  bank,  I  grasp  at 
her  hat,  as  she  comes  up  ;  but  the  ribbons  give  way, 
and  I  see  the  terribly  earnest  look  upon  her  face  as 
fche  goes  down  again.  Oh,  my  mother  ! — thought  I, 
— if  you  were  only  here  ! 

But  she  rises  again  ;  this  time,  I  thrust  my  hand 
into  her  dress,  and  struggling  hard,  keep  her  at  the 
top,  until  I  can  place  my  foot  down  upon  a  project 
ing  root ;  and  so  bracing  myself,  I  drag  her  to  the 
bank,  and  having  climbed  up,  take  hold  of  her  belfc 
firmly  with  both  hands,  and  drag  her  out ;  and  poor 
Isabel,  choked,  chilled,  and  wet,  is  lying  upon  the 
grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.     The  workmen  in  the 


160      REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One  takes  Isabel  in 
his  arms,  and  I  follow  on  foot  to  our  uncle's  homo 
upon  the  hill. 

— "  Oh  my  children  !" — says  my  mother  ;  and  she 
takes  Isabel  in  her  arms ;  and  presently  with  dry 
clothes,  and  blazing  wood-fire,  little  Bella  smiles 
again.  I  am  at  my  mother's  knee. 

"I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel,—"  aunty, 
doesn't  Paul  love  me  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"  I  know  so,"  said  I ;  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it  ?  The  boy  does  not  ask  ; 
the  man  does.  Oh,  the  freshness,  the  honesty,  tho 
vigor  of  a  boy's  heart ! — how  the  memory  of  it  re 
freshes  like  the  first  gush  of  spring,  or  the  break  of 
an  April  shower  ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  PRIDE,  as  well  as  its  LOVES. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man  :  I  fear  him 
when  he  calls  me — "  child" ;  I  love  him  when  he 
calls  me — "  Paul."  He  is  almost  always  busy  with 
his  books  ;  and  when  I  steal  into  tho  library  door,  as 
I  sometimes  do,  with  a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heaping 
basket  of  nuts  to  show  to  him, — he  looks  for  a  mo 
ment  curiously  at  them,  sometimes  takes  them  in  his 
fingers,— ^gives  them  back  to  me,  and  turns  over  the 
leaves  of  his  book.  You  are  afraid  to  ask  him,  if 
you  have  not  worked  bravely ;  yet  you  want  to  do  so. 


T  II  E     M  O  R  N  I  N  G  .  161 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your  mother  ;  she 
scarce  looks  at  your  little  stores  ;  but  she  draws  you 
to  her  with  her  arm,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon  your 
forehead.  Now  your  tongue  is  unloosed  ;  that  kiss, 
and  that  action  have  done  it ;  you  will  tell  what 
capital  luck  you  have  had  ;  and  you  hold  up  your 
tempting  trophies  ; — u  are  they  not  great,  mother  ?" 
But  she  is  looking  in  your  face,  and  not  at  your 
prize. 

"  Take  them,  mother,"  and  you  lay  the  basket 
upon  her  lap. 

"  Thank  you,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them :  but  you 
must  give  somo  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  playful,  cousin 
Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  together  on  the  grass,  and 
I  pour  out  my  stores  between  us.  "  You  shall  take, 
Bella,  what  you  wish  in  your  apron,  and  then  when 
study  hours  are  over,  we  will  have  such  a  time  down, 
by  the  big  rock  in  the  meadow  !" 

"  But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me,"  says 
Isabel. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  do  you  love  your  papa  r" 

"  Yes,"  says  Bella,  "  why  not  r" 

"  Because  he  is  so  cold  ;  he  does  not  kiss  you 
Bella,  so  often  as  my  mother  does  ;  and  besides, 
when  he  forbids  your  going  away,  he  docs  not  say,  as 
mother  does, — my  little  girl  will  bo  tired,  she  had 


162       REVERIES   OF   A    BACHELOR. 

better  not  go, — but  he  says  only, — -Isabel  must  not 
go.  I  wonder  what  makes  him  talk  so  ?" 

"  Why  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  doesn't — • — at  any 
rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my  mother  is  sick, 
you  know." 

"  But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your  mother  too. 
Come  Bella,  we  will  go  ask  her  if  we  may  go." 

And  there  I  am,  the  happiest  of  boys,  pleading 
with  the  kindest  of  mothers.  And  the  young  heart 
leans  into  that  mother's  heart  ; — none  of  the  void  now 
that  will  overtake  it  like  an  opening  Koran  gulf,  in 
the  years  that  are  to  come.  It  is  joyous,  full,  and 
running  over  ! 

"  You  may  go,"  she  says,  "  if  your  uncle  is 
willing." 

"  But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him  ;  I  do  not 
believe  he  loves  me." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Paul,"  and  she  draws  you  to  her 
side  ;  as  if  she  would  supply  by  her  own  love,  the 
lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"  Gro,  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask  him  kindly  ; 
and  if  he  says  no, — make  no  reply." 

And  with  courage,  we  go  hand  in  hand,  and  steal 
in  at  the  library  door.  There  he  sits — I  seem  to  see 
him  now, — in  the  old  wainscotted  room,  covered  over 
with  books  and  pictures  ;  and  he  wears  his  heavy- 
rimmed  spectacles,  and  is  poring  over  some  big  volume, 


THE    MORNING.  163 

full  of  hard  words,  that  are  not  in  any  spelling-book. 
We  step  up  softly  ;  and  Isabel  lays  her  little  hand 
upon  his  arm ;  and  he  turns,  and  says — "  well,  my 
little  daughter  ?" 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock  in  the 
meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid — "  we 
cannot  go." 

"But  why,  uncle  ?  It  is  only  a  little  way,  and  we 
will  be  very  careful." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  children  ;  do  not  say  any  more  : 
you  can  have  the  pony,  and  Tray,  and  play  at 
home," 

"  But,  uncle " 

"  You  need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look  in  her 
eye, — my  own  half  filling  with  tears.  I  feel  that  my 
forehead  is  flushed,  and  I  hide  it  behind  Bella's 
tresses, — whispering  to  her  at  the  same  time — "  let 
us  go." 

"  What  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking  my  mean 
ing — "  do  you  persuade  her  to  disobey  ?" 

Now  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly — "  no,  sir,  I 
didn't !"  And  then  my  rising  pride  will  not  let  me 
say,  that  I  wished  only  Isabel  should  go  out  with  me. 

Bella  cries;  and  I -shrink  out;  and  am  not  easy 
until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my  mother's 


164       REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

bosom.  Alas  !  piide  cannot  always  find  such  covert! 
There  Tvill  be  times  when  it  will  harrass  you  strangely  ; 
when  it  will  peril  friendships, — will  sever  old,  stand 
ing  intimacy  ;  and  then — no  resource,  but  to  feed  on 
its  own  bitterness.  Hateful  pride  ! — to  be  conquered, 
as  a  man  would  conquer  an  enemy,  or  it  will  make 
whirlpools  in  the  current  of  your  affections — nay, 
turn  the  whole  tide  of  the  heart  into  rough,  and  un 
accustomed  channels  ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  GRIEF  too,  apart  from  PRIDE. 

You  love  the  old  dog  Tray  ;  and  Bella  loves  him 
as  well  as  you.  He  is  a  noble  old  fellow,  with  shaggy 
hair,  and  long  ears,  and  big  paws,  that  he  will  put 
up  into  your  hand,  if  you  ask  him.  And  he  never 
gets  angry  when  you  play  with  him,  and  tumble  him 
over  in  the  long  grass,  and  pull  his  silken  ears. 
Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  he  will  open  his  mouth,  as  if 
he  would  bite,  but  when  he  gets  your  hand  fairly  in 
his  jaws,  he  will  scarce  leave  the  print  of  his  teeth 
upon  it.  He  will  swim,  too,  bravely,  and  bring 
ashore  all  the  sticks  you  thro.v  upon  the  water ;  and 
when  you  fling  a  stone  to  tease  him,  he  swims  round 
and  round,  and  whines,  and  looks  sorry,  that  he 
cannot  find  it. 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of  nuts  too  in 
his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one  of  them  ;  and  when 
you  come  out  to  your  uncle's  home  in  the  spring, 


T  H  E     M  0  R  N  I  N  0  .  1  65 

after  staying  a  whole  winter  in  the  town,  he  knows 
you — old  Tray  does  !  And  he  leaps  upon  you,  and 
lays  his  paws  on  your  shoulder,  and  licks  your  face  ; 
and  is  almost  as  glad  to  see  you,  as  cousin  Bella  her 
self.  And  when  you  put  Bella  on  his  back  for  a 
ride,  he  only  pretends  to  bite  her  little  feet ; — but  he 
wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world.  Aye,  Tray  is  a  noble 
old  dog  ! 

But  one  summer,  the  farmers  say  that  some  of 
their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the  dogs  have  worried 
them ;  and  one  of  thjm  comes  to  talk  with  my  uncle 
about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep  ;  you  know  he  never 
did ;  and  so  does  nurse  ;  and  so  does  Bella  ; — for  in 
the  spring,  she  had  a  pet  lamb,  and  Tray  never  wor 
ried  little  Fidelc. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong  to  the 
neighbors  are  shot ;  though  nobody  knows  who  shot 
them  ;  and  you  have  great  fears  about  poor  Tray  ; 
and  try  to  keep  him  at  home,  and  fondle  him  more 
than  ever.  But  Tray  will  sometimes  wander  off ;  till 
finally,  one  afternoon,  he  comes  back  whining  pit- 
eously,  and  with  his  shoulder  all  bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  loud;  and  you  almost  cry,  as 
nurse  dresses  the  wound ;  and  poor  old  Tray  whines 
very  sadly.  You  pat  his  head,  and  Bella  pats  him  j 
and  you  sit  down  together  by  him  on  the  floor  of  the 


166      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

porch,  and  bring  a  rug  for  him  to  lie  upon ;  and  try 
and  tempt  him  with  a  little  milk,  and  Bella  brings  a 
piece  of  cake  for  him, — but  he  will  eat  nothing. 
You  sit  up  till  very  late,  long  after  Bella  has  gone  to 
bed,  patting  his  head,  and  wishing  you  could  do 
something  for  poor  Tray; — but  he  only  licks  your 
hand,  and  whines  more  piteously  than  ever. 

In  the  morning,  you  dress  early,  and  hurry  down 
stairs  •  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the  rug ;  and  you 
run  through  the  house  to  find  him,  and  whistle,  and 
call — Tray  ! — Tray  !  At  length  you  see  him  lying 
in  his  old  place,  out  by  the  cherry  tree,  and  you  run 
to  him  ; — but  he  does  not  start ;  and  you  lean  down 
to  pat  him, — but  he  is  cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet  upon 
him  : poor  Tray  is  dead  ! 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  pat  again 
those  glossy  ears,  and  cry ;  but  you  cannot  bring 
him  to  life.  And  Bella  comes,  and  cries  with  you. 
You  can  hardly  bear  to  have  him  put  in  the  ground ; 
but  uncle  says  he  must  be  buried.  So  one  of  the 
workmen  digs  a  grave  under  the  cherry  tree,  where 
he  died — a  deep  grave,  and  they  round  it  over  with 
earth,  and  smooth  the  sods  upon  it — even  now  I  can 
trace  Tray's  grave. 

You  and  Bella  together,  put  up  a  little  slab  for  a 
tombstone  ;  and  she  hangs  flowers  upon  it,  and  ties 
them  there  with  a  bit  of  ribbon.  You  can  scarce 


THE    MORNING. 


play  all  that  day  ;  and  afterward,  many  weeks  later, 
when  you  are  rambling  over  the  fields,  or  lingering 
by  the  brook,  throwing  off  sticks  into  the  eddies,  you 
think  of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat,  and  of  his  big  paw, 
and  of  his  honest  eye  ;  and  the  memory  of  your 
boyish  grief  comes  upon  you ;  and  you  say  with  tears, 

u  poor   Tray!"     And   Bella   too,  in    her   sad, 

sweet  tones,  says "poor  old  Tray, — he  is  dead!" 


SCHOOL    DAYS. 

THE  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened  rain  ; 
besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and  the  winds  were 
getting  harsh,  and  rustling  among  the  tree-tops  that 
shaded  the  house,  most  dismally.  I  did  not  dare  to 
listen.  If  indeed,  I  were  to  stay  by  the  bright  fires  of 
home,  and  gather  the  nuts  as  they  fell,  and  pile  up  the 
falling  leaves,  to  make  great  bonfires,  with  Ben,  and 
the  rest  of  the  boys,  I  should  have  liked  to  listen,  and 
would  have  braved  the  dismal  morning  with  tho 
cheerfullest  of  them  all.  For  it  would  have  been  a 
capital  time  to  light  a  fire  in  the  little  oven  we  had 
built  under  the  wall ;  it  would  have  been  so  pleasant 
to  warm  our  fingers  at  it,  and  to  roast  the  great  rus 
sets  on  the  flat  stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.     I   had  bid  tho 


168      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

town  boys  good  bye,  the  day  before  ;  my  trunk  was 
all  packed  ;  I  was  to  go  away — to  school.  The 
little  oven  would  go  to  ruin — I  knew  it  would.  I 
was  to  leave  my  home.  I  was  to  bid  my  mother 
good  bye,  and  Lilly,  and  Isabel,  and  all  the  rest ; — 
and  was  to  go  away  from  them  so  far,  that  I  should  only 
know  what  they  were  all  doing — in  letters.  It  was 
sad.  And  then  to  have  the  clouds  come  over  on  that 
morning,  and  the  winds  sigh  so  dismally  ; — oh,  it 
was  too  bad,  1  thought ! 

It  comes  back  to  me  as  I  lie  here  this  bright  spring 
morning,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday.  I  remember 
that  the  pigeons  skulked  under  the  eaves  of  the  car 
riage  house,  and  did  not  sit,  as  they  used  to  do  in 
summer,  upon  the  ridge  ;  and  the  chickens  huddled 
together  about  the  stable  doors,  as  if  they  were 
afraid  of  the  cold  autumn.  And  in  the  garden,  the 
white  hollyhocks  stood  shivering,  and  bowed  to  the 
wind,  as  if  their  time  had  come.  The  yellow  musk- 
melons  showed  plain  among  the  frost  bitten  vines, 
and  looked  cold,  and  uncomfortable. 

Then  they  were  all  so   kind,  in-doors  !     The 

cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my  breakfast,  be 
cause  little  master  was  going  ;  Lilly  would  give  me 
her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  would  put  her  lump  of  sugar 
in  my  cup  ;  and  my  mother  looked  so  smiling,  and  so 
tenderly,  that  I  thought  I  loved  her  more  than  I  ever 


THE    MORNING.  169 

did  before.  Little  Ben  was  so  gay  too  ;  and  wanted 
me  to  take  his  jacknife,  if  I  wished  it, — though  he 
knew  that  I  had  a  bran  new  one  in  my  trunk.  The 
old  nurse  slippsd  a  little  purse  into  my  hand,  tied  up 
with  a  green  ribbon — with  money  in  it, — and  told 
me  not  to  show  it  to  Ben  or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a  visit,  would 
come  to  stand  by  my  chair,  when  my  mother  was 
talking  to  me  ;  and  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  look 
up  into  my  face  ;  but  she  did  not  say  a  word.  I 
thought  it  was  very  odd  ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem  odd 
to  me,  that  I  could  say  nothing  to  her.  I  daresay 
we  felt  alike. 

At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said  the 
coach  had  come ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  out  of  the 
window,  we  saw  it — a  bright  yellow  coach,  with  four 
white  horses,  and  band-boxes  all  over  the  top,  with  a 
great  pile  of  trunks  behind.  Ben  said  it  was  a  grand 
coach,  and  that  he  should  like  a  ride  in  it ;  and  the 
old  nurse  came  to  the  door,  and  said  I  should  have  a 
capital  time  ;  but  somehow,  I  doubted  if  the  nurse 
was  talking  honestly.  I  believe  she  gave  me  an 
honest  kiss  though, — and  such  a  hug  ! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.     Tom  told  me 

to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Trojan ;  but  I  was  not 

thinking  about  study  then.     There  was  a  tall-boy  in 

the  coach,  and  I  was   ashamed  to  have   him  see  me 

8 


170       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

cry  ; — so  I  didn't,  at  first.  But  I  remember,  as  I 
looked  back,  and  saw  littb  Isabel  run  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  street,  to  see  the  coach  go  off,  and  the 
curls  floating  behind  her,  as  the  wind  freshened,  I 
felt  my  heart  leaping  into  my  throat,  and  the  water 
coming  into  my  eyes, — and  how  just  then,  I  caught 
sight  of  the  tall  boy  glancing  at  me, — and  how  I  tried 
to  turn  it  off,  by  looking  to  see  if  I  could  button  up 
iny  great  coat,  a  great  deal  lower  down  than  the  but 
ton  holes  went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use  ;  I  put  my  head  out  of  the 
coach  window,  and  looked  back,  as  the  little  figure  of 
Isabel  faded,  and  then  the  house,  and  the  trees ;  and 
the  tears  did  come  ;  and  I  smuggled  my  handkerchief 
outside  without  turning  ;  so  that  I  could  wipe  my 
eyes,  before  the  tall  boy  should  see  me.  They  say 
that  these  shadows  of  morning  fade,  as  the  sun 
brightens  into  noon-day ;  but  they  are  very  dark 
shadows  for  all  that ! 

Let  the  father,  or  the  mother  think  long,  before 
they  send  away  their  boy — before  they  break  the 
home-ties  that  make  a  web  of  infinite  fineness  and 
soft  silken  meshes  around  his  heart,  and  toss  him 
aloof  into  the  boy-world,  where  he  must  struggle  up 
amid  bickerings  and  quarrels,  into  his  age  of  youth  ! 
There  are  boys  indeed  with  little  fineness  in  the  tex 
ture  of  their  hearts,  and  with  little  delicacy  of  soul, 


THE   MORNING.  171 

to  whom  the  school  in  a  distant  village,  is  but  a  va 
cation  from  home ;  and  with  whom,  a  return  revives 
all  those  grosser  affjctions  which  alone  existed  be 
fore  ; — just  as  there  are  plants  which  will  bear  all 
exposure  without  the  wilting  of  a  leaf,  and  will  return 
to  the  hot-house  life,  as  strong,  and  as  hopeful  as 
ever.  But  there  are  others,  to  whom  the  severance 
from  the  prattle  of  sisters,  the  indulgent  fondness  of 
a  mother,  and  the  unseen  influences  of  the  home 
altar,  gives  a  shock  that  lasts  forever  ;  it  is  wrench 
ing  with  cruel  hand,  what  will  bear  but  little  rough 
ness  ;  and  the  sobs  with  which  the  adieux  are  said, 
are  sobs  that  may  come  back  in  the  after  years, 
strong,  and  steady,  and  terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns  to  sob 
early  !  Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if  you  will  ;  talk 
as  you  will  of  the  fearlessness,  and  strength  of  the 
boy's  heart, — yet  there  belong  to  many,  tenderly 
strung  chords  of  affection  which  give  forth  low,  and 
gentle  music,  that  consoles,  and  ripens  the  ear  for  all 
the  harmonies  of  life.  These  chords  a  little  rude, 
and  unnatural  tension  will  break,  and  break  forever. 
Watch  your  boy  then,  if  so  be  he  will  bear  the 
strain  ;  try  his  nature,  if  it  be  rude  or  delicate  ; 
and  if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do  not,  as  you  value 
your  peace  and  his,  breed  a  harsh  youth  spirit  in  him, 


172       REVERIES    OF    A 

that  shall  take  pride  in  subjugating,  and  forgetting 
the  delicacy,  and  richness  of  his  finer  affections ! 

1  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the  troops  of 

boys  who  were  scattered  in  the  great  play-ground,  as 
the  coach  drove  up  at  night.  The  school  was  in  a 
tall,  stately  building,  with  a  high  cupola  on  the  top, 
where  I  thought  I  would  like  to  go  up.  The  school 
master,  they  told  me  at  home,  was  kind  ;  he  said  lie 
hoped  I  would  be  a  good  boy,  and  patted  me  on  the 
head  ;  but  he  did  not  pat  mo  as  my  mother  used  to 
do.  Then  there  was  a  woman,  whom  they  called  the 
Matron  ;  who  had  a  great  many  ribbons  in  her  cap, 
and  who  shook  my  hand, — but  so  stiffly,  that  I  didn't 
dare  to  look  up  in  her  face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school  room, 
which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the  walls  were  all 
mouldy,  I  remember  ;  and  when  we  passed  a  certain 
door,  he  said, — there  was  the  dungeon  ; — how  I  felt  ! 
I  hated  that  boy ;  but  I  believe  he  is  dead  now. 
Then  the  matron  took  me  u-p  to  my  room, — a  little 
corner  room,  with  two  beds,  and  two  windows,  and  a 
red  table,  and  closet ;  and  my  chum  was  about  my 
size,  and  wore  a  queer  roundabout  jacket  with  big 
bell  buttons  ;  and  he  called  the  schoolmaster — '  Old 
Crikey' — and  kept  me  awake  half  the  night,  telling 
me  how  he  whipped  the  scholars,  and  how  they  played 


THE    MORNING.,  173 

tricks  upon  him.     I  thought  my  chum   was  a  very 
uncommon  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two,  the  lessons  were  easy,  and  it 
was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  '  fellows.'  But  soon  I 
began  to  feel  lonely  at  night  after  I  had  gone  to  bed. 
I  used  to  wish  I  could  have  my  mother  come,  and 
kiss  me  ;  after  school  too,  I  wished  I  could  step  in, 
and  tell  Isabel  how  bravely  I  had  got  my  lessons. 
When  I  told  my  chum  this,  he  laughed  at  me,  and 
said  that  was  no  place  for  '  homesick,  white-livered 
chaps.'  I  wondered  if  my  chum  had  any  mother. 

We  had  spending  money  once  a  week,  with  which 
we  used  to  go  down  to  the  village  store,  and  club  our 
funds  together,  to  make  great  pitchers  of  lemonade. 
Some  boys  would  have  mon^y  besides ;  though  it  was 
against  the  rules  ;  and  one,  I  recollect,  showed  us  a 
five  dollar  bill  in  his  wallet — and  we  all  thought  he 
must  be  very  rich. 

We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village  church 
on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long  benches  in  the 
galleries,  reaching  down  the  side  of  the  meeting 
house  ;  and  on  these  we  sat.  At  the  first,  I  was 
among  tho  smallest  boys,  arid  took  a  place  close  to 
the  wall,  against  the  pulpit  ;  but  afterward,  as  I  grew 
bigger,  I  was  promoted  to  tho  lower  end  of  the  first 
bunch.  This  I  never  liked; — because  it  was  close 
by  one  of  the  ushers,  and  because  it  brought  me  next 


174      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

to  some  country  women,  who  wore  stiff  bonnets,  md 
cat  fennel,  and  sung  with  the  choir.  But  there  was 
a  little  black-eyed  girl,  who  sat  over  behind  the  choir, 
that  I  thought  handsome  ;  I  used  to  look  at  her  very 
often ;  but  was  careful  she  should  never  catch  my 
eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  corner  pew, 
who  was  pretty ;  and  who  wore  a  hat  in  the  winter 
trimmed  with  fur.  Half  the  boys  in  the  school  said 
they  would  marry  her  some  day  or  other.  One's 
name  was  Jane,  and  that  of  the  other,  Sophia  ;  which 
we  thought  pretty  names,  and  cut  them  on  the  ice, 
in  skating  time.  But  I  didn't  think  either  of  them 
so  pretty  as  Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me  :  I  bore  it  bravely  in  the 
school :  but  afterward,  at  night,  when  my  chum  was 
asleep,  I  sobbed  bitterly,  as  I  thought  of  Isabel,  and 
Ben,  and  my  mother,  and  how  much  they  loved  me  ; 
and  laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  sobbed  myself  to 
sleep.  In  the  morning  I  was  calm  enough  : — it  was 
another  of  the  heart  ties  broken,  though  I  did  not 
know  it  then.  It  lessened  the  old  attachment  to 
home,  because  that  home  could  neither  protect  me, 
nor  soothe  me  with  its  sympathies.  Memory  indeed 
freshened  and  grew  strong  ;  but  strong  in  bitterness, 
and  in  regrets.  The  boy  whose  love  you  cannot  feed 
by  daily  nourishment,  will  find  prid?,  self-indulgence, 


THE   MORNING.  175 

and  an  iron  purpose  coming  in  to  furnish  otner  supply 
for  the  soul  that  is  in  him.  If  he  cannot  shoot  his 
branches  into  the  sunshine,  he  will  become  acclimated 
to  the  shadow,  and  indifferent  to  such  stray  gleams  of 
sunshine,  as  his  fortune  may  vouchsafe. 

Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten  between  thu 
school  and  the  village  boys  ;  but  they  usually  passed 
off,  with  such  loud,  and  harmless  explosions,  a3 
belong  to  the  wars  of  our  small  politicians.  The 
village  champions  were  a  hatter's  apprentice,  and  a 
thick  set  fellow  who  worked  in  a  tannery.  We  prided 
ourselves  especially  on  one  stout  boy,  who  wore  a 
sailor's  monkey  jacket.  I  cannot  but  think  how 
jaunty  that  stout  boy  looked  in  that  jacket ;  and  what 
an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to  his  countenance  !  It 
certainly  did  occur  to  me,  to  compare  him  with 
William  Wallace  (Miss  Porter's  William  Wallace) 
and  I  thought  how  I  would  have  liked  to  have  seen 
a  tussle  between  them.  Of  course,  we  who  were 
small  boys,  limited  ourselves  to  indignant  remark,  and 
thought  '  we  should  like  to  see  them  do  it' ;  and 
prepared  clubs  from  the  wood-shed,  after  a  model 
suggested  by  a  New  York  boy,  who  had  seen  the 
clubs  of  the  Policemen. 

There  was  one  scholar, — poor  Leslie,  who  had 
friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and  who  occasionally 
received  letters  bearing  a  foreign  post-mark  : — what 


176      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

an  extraordinary  boy  that  was  ; — what  astonishing 
letters  ; — what  extraordinary  parents  !  I  wondered 
if  I  should  ever  receive  a  letter  from  '  foreign  parts  r7 
I  wondered  if  I  should  ever  write  one : — but  this  was 
too  much — too  absurd  !  As  if  I,  Paul,  wearing  a 
blue  jacket  writh  gilt  buttons,  and  number  four  boots, 
should  ever  visit  those  countries  spoken  of  in 
the  geographies,  and  by  learned  travellers  !  No,  no ; 
this  was  too  extravagant :  but  I  knew  what  I  would 
do,  if  I  lived  to  come  of  age ; — and  I  vowed  that  1 
would, — I  would  go  to  New  York  ! 

Number  seven  was  the  hospital,  and  forbidden 
ground  ;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of  horror  of  number 
seven.  A  boy  died  there  once,  and  oh,  how  he 
moaned;  and  what  a  time  there  was  when  the  father 
came  ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton,  who  wore 
linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across  a  little  brook  by  the 
school,  and  whittled  out  a  saw-mill,  that  actually 
sawed :  he  had  genius.  I  expected  to  see  him 
before  now  at  the  head  of  American  mechanics ;  but 
I  learn  with  pain,  that  he  is  keeping  a  grocery  store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  exhibitions, 
to  which  all  the  towns  people  came,  and  among  them 
the  black- eyed  Jane,  and  the  pretty  Sophia  with  fur 
around  her  hat.  My  great  triumph  was  when  I  had 
the  part  of  one  of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening 


THE    MORNING.  177 

before  I  left  the  school.  How  I  did  look  !  I  had  a 
moustache  put  on  with  burnt  cork,  and  whiskers  very 
bushy  indeed;  and  I  had  the  militia  coat  of  an 
ensign  in  the  town  company,  with  the  skirts  pinned 
up,  and  a  short  sword  very  dullr  and  crooked,  which 
belonged  to  an  old  gentleman  who  was  said  to  have 
got  it  from  some  privateer,  who  was  said  to  have  taken 
it  from  some  great  British  Admiral,  in  the  old 
wars  : — and  the  way  I  carried  that  sword  upon  the 
platform,  and  the  way  I  jerked  it  out,  when  it  came 
to  my  turn  to  say, — '  battle  !  battle  ! — then  death  to 
the  armed,  and  chains  for  the  defenceless  !' — was 
tremendous  ! 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats — black 
felt,  with  turkey  feathers, — we  took  our  place  upon 
the  top  of  the  coach,  to  leave  the  school.  The  head 
master,  in  green  spectacles,  came  out  to  shake  hands 
with  us, — a  very  awful  shaking  of  hands.  — Poor 
gentleman  ! — he  is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  '  for  the  old  school,7 
as  the  coach  started ;  and  upon  the  top  of  the  hill 
that  overlooks  the  village,  we  gave  another  round — 
and  still  another  for  the  crabbed  old  fellow,  whose 
apples  we  had  so  often  stolen. — I  wonder  if  old 
Bulkeley  is  living  yet  ? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine  trees,  I  recalled  the 
image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane,"  and  of  the  other  little 
8* 


178          II  EYERIES     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

girl  in  the  corner  pew, — and  thought  how  I  would 
come  back  after  the  college  days  were  over, — a  man, 
with  a  beaver  hat,  a'hd  a  cane,  and  with  a  splendid 
barouche,  and  how  I  would  take  the  best  chamber  at 
the  inn,  and  astonish  the  old  school- master  by  giving 
him  a  familiar  tap  on  the  shoulder ;  and  how  I  would 
be  the  admiration,  and  the  wonder  of  the  pretty  girl, 
in  the  fur-trimmed  hat !  Alas,  how  our  thoughts 
outrun  our  deeds  ! 

For  long — long  years,  I  saw  no  more  of  my  old 
school :  and  when  at  length  the  new  view  came,  great 
changes — crashing  like  tornadoes, — had  swept  over 
my  path !  I  thought  no  more  of  startling  the 
villagers,  or  astonishing  the  black-eyed  girl.  No,  no  ! 
I  was  content  to  slip  quietly  through  the  little  town, 
with  only  a  tear  or  two,  as  I  recalled  the  dead  ones, 
and  mused  upon  the  emptiness  of  life  ! 


THE     SEA. 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs  and  cares 
vanishes  into  the  proud  stateliness  of  youth.  The 
ambition,  and  the  rivalries  of  the  college  life, — its 
first  boastful  importance  as  knowledge  begins  to  dawn 
on  the  wakened  mind,  and  the  ripe,  and  enviable 
complacency  of  its  senior  dignity,— all  scud  over  my 


THE    MORNING.  179 

memory,  like  this  morning  breeze  along  the  meadows  ; 
and  like  that  too,  bear  upon  their  wing,  a  chillness — 
as  of  distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood  :  Lilly  is  living 
in  a  distant  home  ;  and  Isabel  is  just  blooming  into 
that  sweet  age,  where  Womanly  dignity  waits  her 
beauty  ; — an  age  that  sorely  puzzles  one  who  has 
grown  up  beside  her, — making  him  slow  of  tongue, 
but  very  quick  of  heart ! 

As  for  the  rest let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands  have 
gone  down,  under  the  horizon,  like  the  city  steeples, 
as  you  lose  yourself  in  the  calm  of  the  country,  or 
like  the  great  thoughts  of  genius,  as  you  slip  from 
.the  pages  of  poets,  into  your  own  quiet  reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left :  there  is  no 
thing  but  water  before,  and  only  water  behind. 
Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or  the  blue  vault,  which 
we  call,  with  childish  license — heaven.  The  sails, 
white  and  full,  like  helping  friends  are  pushing  me 
on  ;  and  night  and  day  are  distent  with  the  winds 
which  come  and  go — none  know  whence,  and  none 
know  whither.  A  land  bird  flutters  aloft,  weary 
with  long  flying  ;  and  lost  in  a  world  where  are  no 
forests  but  the  careening  masts,  and  no  foliage  but 
the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  awhile  to  the  smooth 
spars,  till  urged  by  some  homeward  yearning,  it  bears 


ISO      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

off  in  the  face  of  the  wind,  and  sinks,  and  rises  over 
the  angry  waters,  until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the 
blue  waves  gather  the  poor  flutterer  to  their  cold,  and 
glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me  but  the 
waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of  dolphins ;  all  the 
noon,  unless  some  white  sail — like  a  ghost,  stalks  the 
horizon,  there  is  still  nothing  but  the  rolling  seas  ;  all 
the  evening,  after  the  sun  has  grown  big  and  sunk 
under  the  water  line,  and  the  moon  risen,  white  and 
cold,  to  glimmer  across  the  tops  of  the  surging  ocean, 
— there  is  nothing  but  the  sea,  and  the  sky,  to  lead 
off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with  their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour,  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight  upon  the 
taffrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far  back,  and  break, — 
and  gather  nearer,  and  break  louder, — and  gather 
again,  and  roll  down  swift  and  terrible  under  the 
creaking  ship,  and  heave  it  up  lightly  upon  their 
swelling  surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to  their  seething, 
and  yeasty  cradle, — like  an  infant  in  the  swaying  arms 
of  a  mother, — or  like  a  shadowy  memory,  upon  the 
billows  of  manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of  ocean  ; 
life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads  out  as  level  as 
the  sea.  Regrets  and  broken  resolutions  chase  over 
the  soul  like  swift-winged  night-birds,  and  all  the  un 
steady  heights  and  the  wastes  of  action,  lift  up  dis- 


THE    MORNING.  181 

tinct,  and  clear,  from  the  uneasy,  but  limpid  depths 
of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon,  sympa 
thies  are  narrowed  down ;  they  cannot  range,  as 
upon  the  land,  over  a  thousand  objects.  You  are 
strangely  attracted  toward  some  frail  girl,  whose  pal 
lor  has  now  given  place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the  sea 
life.  You  listen  eagerly  to  the  chance  snatches  of  a 
song  from  below,  in  the  long  morning  watch.  You 
love  to  see  her  small  feet  tottering  on  the  unsteady 
deck  ;  and  you  love  greatly  to  aid  her  steps,  and  feel 
her  weight  upon  your  arm,  as  the  ship  lurches  to  a 
heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly  upon  the 
ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive  them  ;  your  morn 
ing  salutation,  is  like  a  welcome  after  absence,  upon 
the  shore  ;  and  each  '  good  night'  has  the  depth  and 
fullness  of  a  land  'farewell.'  And  beauty  grows 
upon  the  ocean  ;  you  cannot  certainly  say  that  the 
face  of  the  fair  girl-voyager  is  prettier  than  that  of 
Isabel ; — oh,  no  ! — but  you  are  certain  that  you  cast 
innocent,  and  honest  glances  upon  her,  as  you  steady 
her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far  oftener  than  at  the  first ; 
and  ocean  life,  and  sympathy,  makes  her  kind ;  she 
does  not  resent  your  rudeness,  one  half  so  stoutly,  as 
she  might  upon  the  shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening — pleading  first 


182       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

with  the  mother,  and  standing  beside  you,— her 
•white  hand  not  very  far  from  yours  upon  the  rail, — 
look  down  where  the  black  ship  flings  off  with  each 
plunge,  whole  garlands  of  emeralds  ;  or  she  will  look 
up  (thinking  perhaps  you  are  looking  the  same  way) 
into  the  skies,  in  search  of  some  stars — which  were 
her  neighbors  at  home.  And  bits  of  old  tales  will 
come  up,  as  if  they  rode  upon  the  ocean  quietude ; 
and  fragments  of  half  forgotten  poems,  tremulously 
uttered, — either  by  reason  of  the  rolling  of  the  ship, 
or  some  accidental  touch  of  that  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  when  fear  will  make 
strange,  and  holy  companionship  ;  and  even  here,  my 
memory  shifts  swiftly  and  suddenly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers  are 

clustered,  trembling,  below.  Every  plank  shakes  ; 
and  the  oak  ribs  groan,  as  if  they  suffered  with  their 
toil.  The  hands  are  all  aloft ;  the  captain  is  forward 
shouting  to  the  mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am 
clinging  to  one  of  the  stanchions,  by  the  binnacle. 
The  ship  is  pitching  madly,  and  the  waves  are  top 
pling  up,  sometimes  as  high  as  the  yard-arm,  and 
then  dipping  away  with  a  whirl  under  our  keel,  that 
makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver.  The  thun 
der  is  roaring  like  a  thousand  cannons  ;  and  at  the 
moment,  the  .sky  is  cleft  with  a  stream  of  fire,  that 
glares  over  the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  glistens  on  the 


T  H  E     M  O  R  N  I  N  G  .  183 

wet  decks,  and  the  spars, — lighting  up  all  so  plain, 
that  I  can  see  the  men's  faces  in  the  main-top,  and 
catch  glimpses  of  the  reefers  on  the  yard-arm,  cling 
ing  like  death  ; — then  all  is  horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvass ;  the 
waves  crash  against  the  weather-bow  like  mountains ; 
the  wind  howls  through  the  rigging,  or,  as  a  gasket 
gives  way,  the  sail  bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  the 
crack  of  a  musket.  I  hear  the  captain  in  the  lulls, 
screaming  out  orders ;  and  the  mate  in  the  rigging, 
screaming  them  over,  until  the  lightning  comes,  and 
the  thunder,  deadening  their  voices,  as  if  they  were 
chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes,  I  see  a  hand  upon  the  yard- 
arm  losa  his  foothold,  as  the  ship  gives  a  plunge  ; 
but  his  arms  are  clenched  around  the  spar.  Before 
I  can  see  any  more,  the  blackness  comes,  and  the 
thunder,  with  a  crash  that  half  deafens  me.  I  think 
I  hear  a  low  cry,  as  the  mutterings  die  away  in 
the  distance  ;  and  at  the  next  flash  of  lightning, 
which  comes  in  an  instant,  I  see  upon  the  top  of  one 
of  the  waves  alongside,  the  poor  reefer  who  has 
fallen.  The  lightning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running  rig 
ging,  as  he  fell ;  and  I  see  it  slipping  off  the  coil 
upon  the  deck.  I  shout  madly — man  overboard  ! — 
and  catch  the  rope,  when  I  can  sec  nothing  again. 


184       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

The  sea  is  too  high,  and  the  man  too  heavy  for  me. 
I  shout,  and  shout,  and  shout,  and  feel  the  perspira^ 
tion  starting  in  great  beads  from  my  forehead,  as  the 
line  slips  through  my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft,  and  takes 
hold  with  me  ;  and  the  cook  comes,  as  the  coil  is 
nearly  spent,  and  we  pull  together  upon  him.  ]t  is 
desperate  work  for  the  sailor  ;  for  the  ship  is  drifting 
at  a  prodigious  rate  ;  but  he  clings  like  a  dying  man. 

By  and  by  at  a  flash,  we  see  him  on  a  crest,  two 
oars  length  away  from  the  vessel. 

u  Hold  on,  my  man  !"  shouts  the  captain. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quick  !"  says  the  poor  fellow ; 
and  he  goes  down  in  a  trough  of  the  sea.  "We  pull 
the  harder,  and  the  captain  keeps  calling  to  him  to 
keep  up  courage,  and  hold  strong.  But  in  the  hush, 
we  can  hear  him  say — "  I  can't  hold  out  much 
longer  ; — I'm  most  gone  !"  . 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where  we  can 
lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting  for  a  good  lift 
of  the  sea  to  bring  him  up,  when  the  poor  fellow 
groans  out, — "  It's  no  use — I  can't — good  bye  !" 
And  a  wave  tosses  the  end  of  the  rope,  clean  upon 
the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash,  I  see  him  going  down  under  the 
water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint   at  heart ; 


THE    MORNING.  185 

and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow  birth,  I  try  to 
sleep.  But  the  thunder  and  the  tossing  of  the  ship, 
and  the  face  of  the  drowning  man,  as  he  said  good  bye, — 
peering  at  me  from  every  corner,  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

Afterward,  come  quiet  seas,  over  which  we  boom 
along,  leaving  in  our  track,  at  night,  a  broad  path  of 
phosphorescent  splendor.  The  sailors  bustle  around 
the  decks,  as  if  they  had  lost  no  comrade  ;  and  the 
voyagers  losing  the  pallor  of  fear,  look  out  earnestly 
for  the  land, 

At  length,  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted  fields  of 
Britain  ;  and  in  a  day  more,  the  bright  face,  looking 
out  beside  me,  sparkles  at  sight  of  the  sweet  cottages, 
which  lie  along  the  gr.een  Essex  shores.  Broad  sailed 
yachts,  looking  strangely,  yet  beautifully,  glide  upon 
the  waters  of  the  Thames,  like  swans  ;  black,  square- 
rigged  colliers  from  the  Tyne,  lie  grouped  in  sooty 
cohorts  ;  and  heavy,  three-decked  Indiamen, — of 
which  I  had  read  in  story  books, — drift  slowly  down 
with  the  tide.  Dingy  steamers,  with  white  pipes, 
and  with  red  pipes,  whiz  past  us  to  the  sea  ;  and 
now,  my  eye  rests  on  the  great  palace  of  Greenwich  ; 
I  see  the  wooden-legged  pensioners  smoking  under 
the  palace  walls  ;  and  above  them  upon  the  hill — as 
Heaven  is  true — that  old,  fabulous  Greenwich,  the 
great  centre  of  school-boy  Longitude. 

Presently,  from   under  a  cloud  of  murky  smoke 


186       •RrE"'V  E  R  I  E  S     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  and  the  tall 
Column  of  the  Fire,  and  the  white  turrets  of  London 
Tower.  Our  ship  glides  through  the  massive  dock 
gates,  and  is  moored,  amid  that  forest  of  masts,  which 
bears  golden  fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night,  I  sleep  far  away  from  '  the  old  school,' 
and  far  away  from  the  valley  of  Hillfarm  ;  long,  and 
late,  I  toss  upon  my  bed,  with  swift  visions  in  my 
mind,  of  London  Bridge,  and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane 
Shore,  and  Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal,  and  King 
Jamie.  And  when  at  length  I  fall  asleep,  my 
dreams  are  very  pleasant,  but  they  carry  me  across 
the  ocean,  away  from  the  ship, — away  from  London, 
— away  even  from  the  fair  voyager, — to  the  old  oaks, 
and  to  the  brooks,  and — to  thy  side — sweet  Isabel ! 


THE    FATHER-LAND. 

THERE  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  easy 
deshabille  of  the  ocean  life,  and  the  prim  attire, 
and  conventional  spirit  of  the  land.  In  the  first, 
there  are  but  few  to  please,  and  these  few  are  known, 
and  they  know  us  ;  upon  the  shore,  there  is  a  world 
to  humour,  and  a  world  of  strangers.  In  a  brilliant 
drawing-room  looking  out  upon  the  site  of  old  Char- 
ing-Cross,  and  upon  the  one-armed  Nelson,  standing 


THE   MORNING. 

aloft  at  his  coil  of  rope,  I  take  leave  of  the  fair 
voyager  of  the  sea.  Her  white  neglige  has  given 
place  to  silks ;  and  the  simple  careless  coiffe  of  the 
ocean,  is  replaced  by  the  rich  dressing  of  a  modiste. 
Yet  her  face  has  the  same  bloom  upon  it ;  and  her 
eye  sparkles,  as  it  seems  to  me,  with  a  higher  pride  ; 
— and  her  little  hand  has  I  think  a  tremulous  quiver 
in  it,  (I  am  sure  my  own  has) — as  I  bid  her  adieu, 
and  take  up  the  trail  of  ray  wanderings  into  the  heart 
of  England. 

Abuse  her,  as  we  will, — pity  her  starving  peasant 
ry,  as  we  may, — smile  at  her  court  pageantry,  as 
much  as  we  like, — old  England,  is  dear  old  England 
still  !  Her  cottage  homes,  her  green  fields,  her 
castles,  her  blazing  firesides,  her  church  spines  are  as 
old  as  song  ;  and  by  song  and  story,  we  inherit  them 
in  our  hearts.  This  joyous  boast;  was,  I  remember, 
upon  my  lip,  as  I  first  trode  upon  the  rich  meadow 
of  Runnymede  ;  and  recalled  that  GREAT  CHARTER 
wrested  from  the  king,  which  made  the  first  stepping 
stone  toward  the  bounties  of  our  western  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  the  Western 
Saxon,  as  he  strolls  first  along  the  green  bye-lanes  of 
England,  and  scents  the  hawthorn  in  its  April  bloom, 
and  lingers  at  some  quaint  stile,  to  watch  the  rooks 
wheeling  and  cawing  around  some  lofty  elm  tops,  and 
traces  the  carved  gables  of  some  old  country  mansion 


188      REVERIES    OF    A     BACHELOR. 

that  lies  in  their  shadow,  and  hums  some  fragment  of 
charming  English  poesy,  that  seems  made  for  the 
scene  !  This  is  not  sight-seeing,  nor  travel ;  it  is 
dreaming  sweet  dreams,  that  are  fed  with  the  old  life 
of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream,  by  a 
swift  step ;  and  winding  and  rising  between  the 
blooming  hedgerows,  I  come  presently  to  the  sight 
of  some  sweet  valley  below  me,  where  a  thatched 
hamlet  lies  sleeping  in  the  April  sun,  as  quietly  as  the 
dead  lie  in  history ; — no  sound  reaches  me  save  the 
occasional  clinck  of  the  smith's  hammer,  or  the 
hedgeman's  bill-hook,  or  the  ploughman's  '  ho-tup !' 
from  the  hills.  At  evening,  listening  to  the  night 
ingale,  I  stroll  wearily  into  some  closa-nestled  village, 
that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  rolling  height. 
It  is  far  away  from  the  great  lines  of  travel ; — and 
the  children  stop  their  play  to  have  a  look  at  me,  and 
rosy-faced  girls  peep  from  behind  half-opened  doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on  either  side  of 
.the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon, 
— which  guardian  birds,  some  native  Dick  Tinto  has 
pictured  upon  the  swinging  sign-board  at  the  corner. 
The  hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace  me,  and  treats 
me  like  a  prince  in  disguise.  She  shows  me  through 
the  tap -room  into  a  little  parlor,  with  white  curtains, 
and  with  neatly  framed  prints  of  the  old  patriarchs. 


THE   MORNING.  189 

Hero,  alone,  beside  a  brisk  fire,  kindled  with  furzo,  I 
watch  the  white  flame  leaping  playfully  through  the 
black  lumps  of  coal,  and  enjoy  the  best  fare  of  the 
Eagle  and  the  Falcon.  If  too  late,  or  too  early  for 
her  garden  stock,  the  hostess  bethinks  herself  of  some 
small  pot  of  jelly  in  an  out-of-the-way  cupboard  of  the 
house,  and  setting  it  temptingly  in  her  prettiest  dish, 
she  coyly  slips  it  upon  the  white  cloth,  with  a  modest 
regret  that  it  is  no  better  ;  and  a  little  evident  satis 
faction — that  it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing  fire,  as 
quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in,  to  bear  me  com 
pany  ;  and  at  bed-time,  I  find  sheets,  as  fresh  as  the 
air  of  the  mountains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later,  I  am 
walking  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs.  Jt  is  near 
night-fall,  and  the  fir  tops  are  swaying,  and  sighing 
hoarsely,  in  the  cool  wind  of  the  Northern  Highlands. 
There  is  none  of  the  smiling  landscape  of  England 
about  me  ;  and  the  crags  of  Edinburgh  and  Castle 
Stirling,  and  sweet  Perth,  in  its  silver  valley,  are  far 
to  the  southward.  The  larchs  of  Athol  and  Bruar 
Water,  and  that  highland  gem — Dunkeld,  are  passed. 
I  am  tired  with  a  morning's  tramp  over  Culloden 
Moor  ;  and  from  the  edge  of  the  wood,  there  stretches 
before  me  in  the  cool  gray  twilight,  broad  fields  of 
leather.  In  the  middle,  there  rise  against  the 


190     REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

night-sky,  the  turrets  of  a  castle  ;  it  is  Castle  Cawdor, 
where  King  Duncan  was  murdered  by  Macbeth. 

The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary  step ;  aud 
emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound  over  the  springy 
heather.  In  an  hour,  I  clamber  a  broken  wall,  and 
come  under  the  frowning  shadows  of  the  castle.  The 
ivy  clambers  up  here,  and  there,  and  shakes  its 
uncropped  branches,  and  its  dried  berries  over  the 
heavy  portal.  I  cross  the  moat,  and  my  step  makes 
the  chains  of  the  draw-bridge  rattle.  All  is  kept  in 
the  old  state  ;  only  in  lieu  of  the  warder's  horn,  I 
pull  at  the  warder's  bell.  The  echoes  ring,  and 
die  in  the  stone  courts  ;  but  there  is  no  one  astir,  nor 
is  there  a  light  at  any  of  the  castle  windows.  I  ring 
again,  and  the  echoes  come,  and  blend  with  the  rising 
night  wind  that  sighs  around  the  turrets,  as  they 
sighed  that  night  of  murder.  I  fancy — it  must  be  a 
fancy, — that  I  hear  an  owl  scream  ;  I  am  sure  that  I 
hear  the  crickets  cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the  moat ;  a 
little  dark  water  lies  in  the  bottom.  The  walls  rise 
from  it  gray,  and  stern  in  the  deepening  shadows. 
I  hum  chance  passages  of  Macbeth,  listening  for  the 
echoes — echoes  from  the  wall ;  and  echoes  from  that 
far  away  time,  when  I  stole  the  first  reading  of  the 
tragic  story. 


T  II  E     M  0  R  N  ING.  191 

"  Dids't  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended  ? 
Ay. 
Hark!" - 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back l  hark  !'  And 

at  dead  of  night,  in  the  thatched  cottage  under  the 
castle  walls,  where  a  dark  faced,  G-aelic  woman,  in  plaid 
turban,  is  my  hostess,  I  wake,  startled  by  the  wind, 
and  my  trembling  lips  say  involuntarily — c  hark  !' 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the  sweet 
county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like  emerald  ;  its 
threads  of  .water  stretched  over  the  fields,  by  their 
provident  husbandry,  glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of 
summer,  like  skeins  of  silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of 
the  true  British  stamp,  is  my  host.  On  market  days 
he  rides  over  to  the  old  town  of  Totuess  in  a  trim, 
black  farmer's  cart ;  and  he  wears  glossy  topped 
boots,  and  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat.  I  take  a  vast 
deal  of  pleasure  in  listening  to  his  honest,  straight 
forward  talk  about  the  improvements  of.  the  day  and 
the  state  of  the  nation.  I  sometimes  get  upon  one  of 
his  nags,  and  ride  off  with  him  over  his  fields,  or 
visit  the  homes  of  the  laborers,  winch  show  their  gray 


192      REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

roofs,  in  every  charming  nook  of  the  landscape.  At 
the  parish  church,  I  dozo  against  the  high  pew  backs, 
as  I  listen  to  the  see-saw  tones  of  the  drawling  curate  ; 
and  in  my  half  wakeful  moments,  the  withered  holly 
sprigs  (not  removed  since  Easter)  grow  upon  my 
vision,  into  Christmas  boughs,  and  preach  sermons  to 
me — of  the  days  of  old. 

Sometimes,  I  wander  far  over  the  hills  into  a 
neighboring  park  ;  and  spend  hours  on  hours,  under 
the  sturdy  oaks,  watching  the  sleek  fallow  deer, 
gazing  at  me  with  their  soft,  liquid  eyes.  The 
squirrels,  too,  play  above  me,  with  their  daring  leaps, 
utterly  careless  of  my  presence,  and  the  pheasants 
whir  away  from  my  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls — 1  remember  it 
very  well — when  I  was  idling  along,  thinking  of  the 
broad  reach  of  water  that  lay  between  me,  and  that 
old  forest  home, — and  beating  off  the  daisy  heads 
with  my  cane, — I  heard  the  tramp  of  horses,  coming 
up  one  of  the  forest  avenues.  The  sound  was 
unusual,  for  the  family,  I  had  been  told,  was  still  in 
town,  and  no  right  of  way  lay  through  the  park. 
There  they  were,  however: — I- was  sure  it  must  be 
the  family,  from  the  careless  way  in  which  they  came 
sauntering  up. 

First,  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came  bounding 
toward  me, — gazed  a  moment,  and  turned  to  watch 


THE    MORNING.  193 

the  approach  of  the  little  •cavalcade.  Next  was  an 
elderly  gentleman  mounted  upon  a  spirited  hunter, 
attended  by  a  boy  of  some  dozen  years,  who  managed 
his  pony  with  a  grace,  that  is  a  part  of  the  English 
boy's  education.  Then  followed  two  older  lads, 
and  a  travelling  phoston,  in  which  sat  a  couple 
of  elderly  ladies.  But  what  most  drew  my  attention 
was  a  girlish  figure,  that  rode  beyond  the  carriage, 
upon  a  sleek-limbed  gray.  There  was  something 
in  the  easy  grace  of  her  attitude,  and  the  rich 
glow  that  lit  up  her  face — heightened  as  it  was, 
by  the  little  black  velvet  riding  cap,  relieved  with  a 
single  flowing  plume, — that  kept  my  eye.  It  was 
strange,  but  I  thought  that  I  had  seen  such  a  figure 
before,  and  such  a  face,  and  such  an  eye  ;  and  as  I 
made  the  ordinary  salutation  of  a  stranger,  and 
caught  her  smile,  I  could  have  sworn  that  it  was  she — =• 
my  fair  companion  of  the  ocean.  The  truth  flashed 
upon  me  in  a  moment.  She  was  to  visit,  she  had  told 
me,  a  friend  in  the  south  of  England  ; — and  this  was 
the  friend's  home  ; — and  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 
carriage  was  her  mother  ;  and  one  of  the  lads,  the 
school-boy  brother,  who  had  teased  her  on  the  sea. 

I  recal  now  perfectly,  her  frank  manner,  as  she 
ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  welcome.  I  strolled 
beside  them  to  the  steps.  Old  Devon  had  suddenly 
icnewed  its  beauties  for  me.  I  had  much  to  tell  her, 


194      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

of  the  little  out-lying  nooks,  which  my  wayward  feet 
had  led  me  to  :  and  she — as  much  to  ask.  My  stay 
with  the  bland  old  farmer  lengthened  ;  and  two  days 
hospitalities  at  the  Park  ran  over  into  three,  and  four. 
There  was  hard  galloping  down  those  avenues  ;  and 
new  strolls,  not  at  all  lonely,  under  the  sturdy  oaks. 
The  long  summer  twilight  of  England  used  to  find  a 
very  happy  fellow  lingering  on  the  garden  terrace, — 
looking,  now  at  the  rookery,  where  the  belated  birds 
quarreled  for  a  resting  place,  and  now  down  the  long 
forest  vista,  gray  with  distance,  and  closed  with  tho 
white  spire  of  Modbury  church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one — very 
fast ;  and  it  is  not  so  easy,  as  in  the  drawing-room  of 
Charing  Cross,  to  say — adieu  !  But  it  is  said — very 
sadly  said  ;  for  God  only  knows  how  long  it  is  to  last. 
And  as  I  rode  slowly  down  toward  the  lodge  after  my 
leave-taking,  I  turned  back  again,  and  again,  and 
again.  I  thought  I  saw  her  standing  still  upon  the 
terrace,  though  it  was  almost  dark  ;  and  I  thought — 
it  could  hardly  have  been  an  illusion — that  I  saw 
something  white  waving  from  her  hand. 

Her  name — as  if  I  could  forget  it — was  Caroline  ; 
her  mother  called  her — Carry.  I  wondered  how  it 
would  ssem  for  me  to  call  her — Carry  !  I  tried  it ; — 
it  sounded  well.  I  tried  it — over  and  over, — until  I 
came  too  near  the  lodore.  There  I  threw  a  half 


THE    MORNING.  195 

crown  to  the  woman  who  opened  the  gate  for  me. 
She  curtsied  low,  and  said — "  G-od  bless  you,  sir  !" 

I  liked  her  for  it ;  I  would  have  given  a  guinea  for 
it :  and  that  night, — whether  it  was  the  old  woman's 
benediction,  or  the  waving  scarf  upon  the  terrace,  I 
do  not  know ; — but  there  was  a  charm  upon  my 
thought,  and  rny  hope,  as  if  an  angel  had  been  near 
me. 

It  passed  away  though  in  my  dreams  ; — for  I 
dreamed  that  I  saw  the  -  sweet  face  of  Bella  in  an 
English  park,  and  that  she  wore  a  black  velvet  riding 
cap,  with  a  plume  ;  and  I  came  up  to  her  and 
murmured,  very  sweetly,  I  thought, — "  Carry,  dear 
Carry  !"  and  she  started,  looked  sadly  at  me,  and 
turned  away.  I  ran  after  her,  to  kiss  her  as  I  did 
when  she  sat  upon  my  mother's  lap,  on  the  day  when 
she  came  near  drowning  :  I  longed  to  tell  her,  as  I 
did  then — I  do  love  you.  But  she  turned  her  tearful 
face  upon  me,  I  dreamed  ;  and  then, — I  saw  no  more. 


» 
A    ROMAN    GIRL. 


— I  REMEMBER  the  very  words — "  non  parlo  Pran- 
cesce,  Signore, — I  do  not  speak  French,  Signor" — 
said  the  stout  lady, — "  but  my  daughter,  perhaps,  will 
understand  you." 


196       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

And  she  called — "  Enrica  ! — Enrica  !  renile, 
subito  !  c'e  unforestiere." 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light  brown  hair  fall 
ing  carelessly  over  her  shoulders,  her  rich  hazel  eye 
twinkling  and  full  of  life,  the  colour  coming  and  going 
upon  her  transparent  cheek,  and  her  bosom  heaving 
with  her  quick  step.  With  one  hand  she  put  back 
the  scattered  locks  that  had  fallen  over  her  fore 
head,  while  she  laid  the  other  gently,  upon  the  aim 
of  her  mother,  and  asked  in  that  sweet  music  of  the 
south — "  cosa  volele,  mamma  ?" 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in  many  a 
day  ;  and  this,  notwithstanding  I  was  in  Home,  and  had 
come  that  very  morning  from  the  Palace  of  Borghjse. 
The  stout  lady  was  my  hostess,  and  Eurica — so  fair, 
so  young,  so  unlike  in  her  beauty,  to  other  Italian 
beauties,  was  my  landlady's  daughter.  The  house 
was  one  of  those  tall  houses — very,  very  old,  which 
stand  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  Corso,  looking  out 
upon  the  Piazzo  di  Colonna.  The  staircases  were 
very  tall,  and  dirty,  and  they  were  narrow  and  dark. 
Four  flights  of  stone  steps  lecl  up  to  the  corridor 
where  they  lived.  A  little  trap  was  in  the  door  ;  and 
there  was  a  bell- rope,  at  the  least  touch  of  which,  I 
was  almost  sure  to  hear  tripping  feet  run  along  tho 
stone  floor  within,  and  then  to  see  the  trap  thrown 
slyly  back,  and  those  deep  hazle  eyes  looking  out 


THE    M  o  R  N  i  N  G..  197 

upon  me ;  and  then  the  door  would  open,  and  along 
the  corridor,  under  the  daughter's  guidance,  (until  I 
had  learned  the  way,)  I  passed  to  my  Roman  home. 
I  was  a  long  time  learning  the  way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso,  and  I  could 
catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of  the  tall  column 
of  Antoninus,  and  of  a  fragment  of  the  palace  of  the 
Governor.  My  parlor,  which  was  separated  from  the 
apartments  of  the  family  by  a  narrow  corridor,  looked 
upon  a  small  court,  hung  around  with  balconies. 
From  the  upper  one,  a  couple  of  black-eyed  girls  are 
occasionally  looking  out,  and  they  can  almost  read 
the  title  of  my  book,  when  I  sit  by  the  window.  Be 
low  are  three  or  four  blooming  ragazzc,  who  are 
dark-eyed,  and  have  Roman  luxuriance  of  hair.  The 
youngest  is  a  friend  of  our  Enrica,  and  is  of  course 
frequently  looking  up,  with  all  the  innocence  in  the 
world,  to  see  if  Enrica  may  be  looking  out. 

Night  after  night,  a  bright  blaze  glows  upon  my 
hearth,  of  the  alder  faggots  which  they  bring  from  the 
Albanian  hills.  Night  after  night  too,  the  family 
come  in,  to  aid  my  blundering  speech,  and  to  enjoy 
the  rich  sparkling  of  my  faggot  fire.  Little  Cesare,  a 
dark-faced  Italian  boy,  takes  up  his  position  with  pen 
cil  and  slate,  and  draws  by  the  light  of  the  blaze 
genii  and  castles.  The  old  one-eyed  teacher  of 
Enrica,  lays  his  snuff  box  upon  the  table,  and  his 


198       REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

handkerchief  across  his  lap,  and  with  his  spectacles 
upon  his  nose,  and  his  "big  fingers  on  the  lesson,  runs 
through  the  French  tenses  of  the  verb  amarc.  The 
father  a  sallow-faced,  keen-eyed  man,  with  true 
Italian  visage,  sits  with  his  arms  upon  the  elbows  of 
his  chair,  and  talks  of  the  Pope,  or  of  the  weather. 
A  spruce  count  from  the  Marches  of  Ancona,  wears 
a  heavy  watch  seal,  and  reads  Dante  with  furore. 
The  mother,  with  arms  akimbo,  looks  proudly  upon 
her  daughter,  and  counts  her,  as  well  she  may,  a  gem 
among  the  Roman  beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing  on  one 
side  ;  there  was  scarce  room  for  but  three  upon  the 
other.  Signor  il  maestro  was  one — then  Enrica,  and 
next — how  well  I  remember  it — came  myself.  For  I 
could  sometimes  help  Enrica  to  a  word  of  French  ; 
and  far  oftener,  she  could  help  me  to  a  word  of 
Italian.  Her  face  was  rich,  and  full  of  feeling ;  I 
used  greatly  to  love  to  watch  the  puzzled  expressions 
that  passed  over  her  forehead,  as  the  sense  of  some 
hard  phrase  escaped  her  ; — and  better  still,  to  see  the 
happy  smile,  as  she  caught  at  a  glance,  the  thought 
of  some  old  scholastic  Frenchman,  and  transferred  it 
into  the  liquid  melody  of  her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and  only  that 
very  autumn  was  escaped  from  the  thraldom  of  a 
convent,  upon  the  skirts  of  Rome.  She  knew  nothing 


THE    MORNING.  199 

of  life,  but  the  life  of  feeling  ;  and  all  thoughts  of 
happiness,  lay  as  yet  in  her  childish  hopes.  It  was 
pleasant  to  look  upon  her  face  ;  and  it  was  still  more 
pleasant  to  listen  to  that  sweet  Roman  voice.  What  a 
rich  flow  of  superlatives,  and  endearing  diminutives, 
from  those  vermillion  lips !  Who  would  not  have 
loved  the  study,  and  who  would  not  have  loved — 
without  meaning  it — the  teacher  ? 

In  those  days,  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the  tables 
of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Via  Condotti ;  but  would  hurry 

back  to  my  little  Roman  patlor -the  fire  was  so 

pleasant !  And  it  was  so  pleasant  to  greet  Enrica 
with  her  mother,  even  before  the  one-eyed  maestro 
had  come  in  ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  unfold  the  book 
between  us,  and  to  lay  my  hand  upon  the  page — a 
small  page — where  hers  lay  already.  And  when  she 
pointed  wrong,  it  was  pleasant  to  correct  her — over 
and  over; — insisting,  that  her  hand  should  be  here, 
and  not  there,  and  lifting  those  little  fingers  from  one 
page,  and  putting  them  down  upon  the  other.  And 
sometimes,  half  provoked  with  my  fault-finding,  she 
would  pat  my  hand  smartly  with  hers  ; — but  when  I 
looked  in  her  fece  to  know  what  that  could  mean,  she 
would  meet  my  eye  with  such  a  kind  submission,  and 
half  earnest  regret,  as  made  me  not  only  pardon  the 
offence, — but  tempt  me  to  provoke  it  again. 

Through  all    the  days  of  Carnival,   when  I   rode 


200       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

pelted  with  confetti,  and  pelting  back,  my  eyes  used  to 
wander  up,  from,  a  long  way  off,  to  that  tall  house 
upon  the  Corso,  where  I  was  sure  to  meet,  arrain  and 
again,  those  forgiving  eyes,  and  that  soft  brown  hair, 
all  gathered  under  the  little  brown  sombrero,  set  off 
with  one  pure  white  plume.  And  her  hand  full  of 
bon-bons,  she  would  shake  at  me  threateningly  ;  and 
laugh — a  musical  laugh — as  I  bowed  my  head  to  the 
assault,  and  recovering  from  the  shower  of  missiles, 
would  turn  to  throw  my  stoutest  bouquet  at  her  bal 
cony.  At  night,  I  would  bear  home  to  the  Roman 
parlor,  my  best  trophy  of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for 
Enrica  ;  and  Enrica  would  be  sure  to  render  in 
acknowledgment,  some  carefully  hidden  flowers,  the 
prettiest  that  her  beauty  had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights,  she  arrays 
herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Albanian  water-carriers  ; 
and  nothing,  one  would  think  could  be  prettier,  than 
the  laced  crimson  jacket,  and  the  strange  head  gear 
with  its  trinkets,  and  the  short  skirts  leaving  to  view 
as  delicate  an  ankle  as  could  bo  found  in  Rome. 
Upon  another  night,  she  glides  into  my  little  parlor, 
as  we  sit  by  the  blaze,  in  a  close  velvet  boddice,  and 
with  a  Swiss  hat  caught  up  by  a  looplet  of  silver,  and 
adorned  with  a  full  blown  rose — nothing  jrou  think 
could  be  prettier  than  this.  Again,  in  one  of  her 
girlish  freaks,  she  robes  herself  like  a  nun  ;  and  with 


THE    Mo  UN  ING.  201 

the  hoavj  black  serge,  for  dress,  and  the  funereal 
veil, — relieved  only  by  the  plain  white  rufflo  of  her 
cap — you  wish  she  were  always  a  nun.  But  the  wish 
vanishes,  when  you  see  Ii3r  in  a  pure  white  muslin, 
with  a  wreath  of  orange  blossoms  about  her  forehead, 
and  a  single  white  rose-bud  in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enriea  keeps  a  pot  or  two 
of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  winter  long :  and  each 
morning,  I  find  upon  my  table  a  fresh  rose  bud ;  each 
night,  I  bear  back  for  thank-offering,  the  prettiest 
bouquet  that  can  be  found  in  the  Via  Condotti.  The 
quiet  fire-side  evenings  come  back  ; — in  which  iny 
hand  seeks  its  wonted  place  upon  her  book  ;  and  my 
other,  will  creep  around  upon  the  back  of  Enrica's 
chair,  and  Enrica  will  look  indignant, — and  then  all 
forgiveness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  pacquet  of  letters : — 
ah,  what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big  arm-chair, 
there  before  the  crackling  faggots,  with  the  pleasant 
rustle  of  that  silken  dress  beside  me,  and  run 
over  a  second,  and  a  third  time,  those  mute  paper 
missives,  which  bore  to  me  over  so  many  miles  of 
water,  the  words  of  greeting,  and  of  love  !  It  would 
be  worth  travelling  to  the  shores  of  the  JEgean,  to 
find  one's  heart  quickened  into  such  life  as  the  ocean 
letters  will  make.  Enrica  threw  down  her  book, 
and  wondered  what  could  be  in  them  ? — and  snatched 


202      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

one  from  rny  hand,  and  looked  with  sad,  but  vain 
intensity  over  that  strange  scrawl. — What  can  it 
be  ? — said  she  ;  and  she  laid  her  finger  upon  the  little 
half  line—  "  Dear  Paul." 

I  told  her  it  was — "  Caro  mio." 

Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap,  and  looked  in  my  face ; 
"  It  is  from  your  mother  ?"  said  she. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  From  your  sister  ?" — said  she. 

"  Alas,  no  !" 

u  II  vostro  fratello,  dunque  ?" 

"  Ntmmeno" — said  I — "  not  from  a  brother  either." 

She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up  her  book ; 
and  presently  she  laid  the  book  down  again  ;  and 
looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  at  me  ; — and  went  out. 

She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening ;  in  the 
morning,  there  was  no  rose-bud  on  my  table.  And 
when  I  came  at  night,with  a  bouquet  from  Pietro's 
at  the  corner,  she  asked  me — "  who  had  written  my 
letter  ?" 

u  A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

"  A  lady  r"  continued  she. 

"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and  put  it 
in  my  hands. 

"  But,    Enrica,  she   has   plenty  of  flowers :    she 


THE    MORNING.  203 

lives  among  them,  and  each  morning  her  children 
gather  them  by  scores  to  make  garlands  of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to  take 
again  the  bouquet ;  and  for  a  moment  I  held  both 
fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  at  Rome  in  thai  time,  who  afterward 
died  between  Ancona  and  Corinth  :  we  were  sitting 
one  day  upon  a  block  of  tufa  in  the  middle  of  the 
Coliseum,  looking  up  at  the  shadows  which  the 
waving  shrubs  upon  the  southern  wall, cast  upon  the 
ruined  arcades  within,  and  listening  to  the  chirping 
sparrows  that  lived  upon  the  wreck, — when  he  said  to 
me  suddenly — "Paul,  you  love  the  Italian  girl." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you,"  said  he, 
soberly. 

"  She  has  a  very  warm  heart,  1  believe,"  said  I. 

"  Aye,"  said  he. 

"  But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl,"  continued  I. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  my  friend  ;  and  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off  drawing  diagrams 
with  his  cane, — "  I  have  seen,  Paul,  more  than  you 
of  this  southern  nature.  The  Italian  girl  of  fifteen 
is  a  woman  ; — an  impassioned,  sensitive,  tender 
creature — yet  still  a  woman  :  you  are  loving — if  you 


214      REVERIES    OF    A     BACHELOR. 

love — a  full-grown  heart  ;  she  is  loving — if  she 
loves — as  a  ripe  heart  should." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly  true," 
said  I. 

"  Try  it,"  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down  firmly, 
and  looking  in  my  face. 

"  How  ?"  returned  I. 

"  I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands,"  continued 
he.  "  Go  with  me  into  the  Appenines  ;  leave  your 
home  in  the  Corso,  and  see  if  you  can  forget  in  the 
air  of  the  mountains,  your  blue-eyed  Roman  girl !" 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he  went  on  : — 
"It  is  better  so :  love  as  you  might,  that  southern 
nature  with  all  its  passion,  is  not  the  material  to 
build  domestic  happiness  upon  ;  nor  is  your  northern 
habit — whatever  you  may  think  at  your  time  of  life, 
the  one  to  cherish  always  those  passionate  sympathies 
which  are  bred  by  this  atmosphere,  and  their  scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little  parlor, 
and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that  sweet,  angel 
face  :  and  then,  like  lightning  it  traversed  oceans,  and 
fed  upon  the  old  ideal  of  home,  and  brought  images 
to  my  eye  of  lost — dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be 
stirring  on  heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft  Roman 
atmosphere,  with  greeting,  and  with  beckoning. 

u  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father   shrugged    his  shoulders,  when  I  told 


THE    MORNING.  205 

him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains,  and  wanted  a 
guide.  His  wife  said  it  would  ba  cold  upon  the  hills, 
for  the  winter  was  not  ended.  Enrica  said  it  would 
be  warm  in  the  valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming. 
The  old  man  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  but  said  nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.  Cesare  said  it 
would  be  hard  walking.  Enrica  asked  papa,  if  there 
would  be  any  danger  ?  And  again  the  old  man 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  Again  I  asked  him,  if  he 
knew  a  man  who  would  serve  us  as  guide  among  the 
Appenines  ;  and  finding  me  determined,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  said  he  would  find  one  the  next 
day. 

As  I  passed  out  at  evening,  on  my  way  to  the 
Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where  stand  the 
carriages  that  go  out  to  Tivoli,  Enrica  glided  up  to 

me,  and  whispered — u  ah^  mi  displace  tanto tanlo, 

Signor  .'" 

THE   APPENINES. 

I  SHOOK  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  afterward  was 
passing  with  my  friend,  by  the  Trajan  forum,  toward 
the  deep  shadow  of  San  Maggiore,  which  lay  in  our 
way  to  the  mountains.  At  sunset,  we  were  wandering 
over  the  ruin  of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies  upon  the 


206  REVERIES  or  A  BACHELOR. 

first  step  of  the  Appenines.  Behind  us,  the  vesper 
bells  of  Tivoli  were  sounding,  and  their  echoes 
floating  sweetly  under  the  broken  arches  ;  before  us, 
stretching  all  the  way  to  the  horizon,  lay  the  broad 
Campagna  ;  while  in  the  middle  of  its  great  waves, 
turned  violet-coloured,  by  the  hues  of  twilight,  rose 
the  grouped  towers  of  the  Eternal  City  ;  and  lording 
it  among  them  all,  like  a  giant,  stood  the  black  dome 
of  St.  Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the  mountains, 
leaving  the  Campagna  far  behind  us.  Rocks  and 
stones,  huge  and  ragged,  lie  strewed  over  the  surface 
right  and  left ;  deep  yawning  valleys  lie  in  the 
shadows  of  mountains,  that  loom  up  thousands  of 
feet,  bearing  perhaps  upon  their  tops  old  castellated 
towns,  perched  like  birds'  nests.  But  mountain  and 
valley  are  blasted  and  scarred ;  the  forests  even,  are 
not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a  livelihood ;  as  if 
the  brimstone  fire  that  consumed  Nineveh,  had  with 
ered  their  energies.  Sometimes,  our  eyes  rest  on  a 
great  white  scar  of  the  broken  calcareous  rock,  on 
which  the  moss  cannot  grow,  and  the  lizards  dare  not 
creep.  Then  we  see  a  cliff  beetling  far  aloft,  with 
the  shining  walls  of  some  monastery  of  holy  men  glis 
tening  at  its  base.  The  wayside  brooks  do  n.ot  seem 
to  be  the  gentle  offspring  of  bountiful  hills,  but  the 
remnants  of  something  greater,  whose  greatness  has 


THE   MORNING.  207 

expired ; — they  are  turbid  rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom 
of  yawning  chasms.  Even  the  shrubs  have  a  look,  as 
if  the  Volscian  war-horse  had  trampled  them  down  to 
death  ;  and  the  primroses  and  the  violets  by  the 
mountain  path,  alone  look  modestly  beautiful  amid 
the  ruin. 

Sometimes,  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above  which  the 
goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs,  and  listen  to  the  sweet 
pastoral  pipes  of  the  Appenines.  We  see  the  shep 
herds  in  their  rough  skin  coats,  high  over  our  heads. 
Their  herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems,  on  ledges  of  a 
hand's  breadth.  The  sweet  sound  floats  and  lingers 
in  the  soft  atmosphere*,  without  a  breath  of  wind  to 
bear  it  away,  or  a  noise  to  disturb  its  melody.  The 
shadows  slant  more  and  more  as  we  linger  ;  and  the 
kids  begin  to  group  together.  And  as  we  wander  on, 
through  the  stunted  vineyards  in  the  bottom  of  the 
valley,  the  sweet  sound  flows  after  us,  like  a  river  of 
song, — nor  leaves  us,  till  the  kids  have  vanished  in 
the  distance,  and  the  cliffs  themselves,  become  one 
dark  wall  of  shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meagre  mountain  town,  we 
stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass-ways,  or  wander  under 
the  heavy  arches  of  the  mountain  churches.  Shuf 
fling  old  women  grope  in  and  out ;  dim  lamps  glim 
mer  faintly  at  the  side  altars,  shedding  horrid  light 
upon  painted  images  of  the  dying  Christ.  Or  per- 


208       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

haps,  to  make  the  old  pile  more  solemn,  there  stands 
some  bier  in  the  middle,  with  a  figure  or  two  kneeling 
at  the  foot,  and  ragged  boys  move  stealthily  under 
the  shadows  of  the  columns.  Presently  comes  a 
young  priest,  in  black  robes,  and  lights  a  taper  at  the 
foot,  and  another  at  the  head — for  there  is  a  dead 
man  on  the  bior  ;  and  the  parched,  thin  features  look 
awfully  under  the  yellow  light  of  the  tapers,  in  the 
gloom  of  the  great  building.  It  is  very,  very  damp 
in  the  church,  and  the  body  of  the  dead  man  seems 
to  make  the  air  heavy,  so  we  go  out  into  the  starlight 
again. 

In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear  broad 
shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple,  on  the  herbage,  to 
our  tread  :  across  the  valley,  it  is  like  summer  ;  and 
the  birds — for  there  are  songsters  in  the  Appenines, — 
make  summer  music.  Their  notes  blend  softly 
with  the  faint  sounds  of  some  far  off  convent  bell, 
tolling  for  morning  mass,  and  strike  the  frosted 
and  shaded  mountain  side,  with  a  sweet  echo.  As 
we  toil  on,  and  the  shaded  hills  begin  to  glow  in  the 
sunshine,  we  pass  a  train  of  mules,  loaded  with  wine. 
We  have  seen  them  an  hour  before — little  black  dots 
twining  along  the  white  streak  of  foot-way  upon  the 
mountain  above  us.  We  lost  them  as  we  began  to 
ascend,  until  a  wild  snatch  of  an  Appenine  song 
turned  our  eyes  up,  and  there,  straggling  through  the 


THE   MORNING.  209 

brush,  they  appeared  again ;  a  foot  slip  would  have 
brought  the  mules  and  wine  casks  rolling  upon  us. 
We  keep  still,  holding  by  the  brushwood,  to  let  them 
pass.  An  hour  more,  and  we  see  them  toiling  slowly, — 
mule  and  muleteer, — big  dots,  and  little  dots, — far 
down  where  we  have  been  before.  The  sun  is  hot 
and  smoking  on  them  in  the  bare  valleys  ;  the  sun  is 
hot  and  smoking  on  the  hill-side,  where  we  are  toiling 
over  the  broken  stones.  I  thought  of  little  Enrica, 
when  she  said the  spring  was  coming  ! 

Time  and  again,  we  sit  down  together — my  friend 
and  I — upon  some  fragment  of  rock,  under  the 
broad-armed  chestnuts,  that  fringe  the  lower  skirts  of 
the  mountains,  and  talk  through  the  hottest  of  the 
noon,  of  the  warriors  of  Scylla,  and  of  the  Sabine 
women, — but  oftener — of  the  pretty  peasantry,  and 
of  the  sweet-faced  Roman  girl.  He  too  tells  me  of 
his  life  and  loves,  and  of  the  hopes  that  lie  misty 
and  grand  before  him  : — little  did  we  think  that  in  so 
few  years,  his  hopes  would  be  gone,  and  his  body 
lying  low  in  the  Adriatic,  or  tost  with  the  drift  upon 
the  Dalmatian  shores  !  Little  did  I  think,  that  here 
under  the  ancestral  wood, — still  a  wishful  and  blun 
dering  mortal,  I  should  be  gathering  up  the  shreds, 
that  memory  can  catch  of  our  Appenine  wandering, 
and  be  weaving  them  into  my  bachelor  dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of  thought,  I 


210      Jl  E  v  E...R'I  E  s    or    A    BACHELOR. 

follow  our  steps j  as  after  weeks  of  wandering,  we  gained 
once  more  a  height  that  overlooked  the  Campagna — 
and  saw  the  sun  setting  on  its  edge,  throwing  into 
relief  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  blazing  in  a  red 
stripe  upon  the  waters  of  the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina — the  Prameste  of  the  poets 
and  philosophers  ; — the  dwelling  place  of — I  know 
not  how  many — Emperors.  We  went  straggling 
through  the  dirty  streets,  searching  for  some  tidy- 
looking  osteria.  At  length,  we  found  an  old  lady, 
who  could  give  us  a  bed,  but  no  dinner.  My  friend 
dropped  in  a  chair  disheartened.  A  snub-looking 
priest  came  out  to  condole  with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina, — the  frigidum  Prceneste  of 
Horace,  which  had  entertained  over  and  over,  the 
noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and  the  most  noble  Adrian — 
could  Palestrina  not  furnish  a  dinner  to  a  tired 
traveller  ? 

u  Si,  SignoreJ'*  said  the  snub-looking  priest. 

"  Si,  Signorino^  said  the  neat  old  lady  ;  and 
away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And  we  found 
bright  and  happy  faces  ; — especially  the  little  girl  of 
twelve  years,  who  came  close  by  me  as  I  ate,  and 
afterward  strung  a  garland  of  marigolds,  and  put  it 
on  my  head.  Then  there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy  of 
fourteen,  who  wrote  his  name,  and  those  of  the  whole 
family,  upon  a  fly  leaf  of  my  book  :  and  a  pretty, 


THE    M  o  R  N  i  N 

* 

saucy-looking  girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped  a  long  time 
from  behind  the  kitchen  door,  but  before  the  evening 
was  gone,  she  was  in  the  chair  beside  me,  and  had 
written  her  name — Carlotta — upon  the  first  leaf  of 
my  journal. 

When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.  From  my  bed  I 
could  see  over  the  town,  the  thin,  lazy  mists  lying 
on  the  old  camp-ground  of  Pyrrhus  ;  beyond  it,  were 
the  mountains,  which  hide  Frascati,  and  Monte  Cavi. 
There  was  old  Colonna  too,  that — 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Appenine. 

As  the  mist  lifted,  and  the  sun  brightened  the 
plain,  I  could  see  the  road,  along  which  Sylla  came 
fuming  and  maddened  after  the  Mithridaten  war.  I 
could  see,  as  I  half  dreamed  and  half  slept,  the  fright 
ened  peasantry  whooping  to  their  long-horned  cattle, 
as  they  drove  them  on  tumultuously  up  through  the 
gateways  of  the  town ;  and  women  with  babies  in 
their  arms,  and  children  scowling  with  fear  and  hate, 
— all  trooping  fast  and  madly,  to  escape  the  hand  of 
the  Avenger  ; — alas  !  ineffectually,  for  Sylla  mur 
dered  them,  and  pulled  down  the  walls  of  their  town 
— the  proud  Palestrina  ! 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles  of  Rome, 


212       REVERIES    or    A    BACHELOR. 

led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  grouping  along  the  plain, 
their  corslets  flashing  out  of  the  mists, — -their  pen 
nants  dashing  above  it, — coming  up  fast,  and  still  as 
the  wind,  to  make  the  Mural  Prseneste,  their  strong 
hold  against  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes.  And  strangely 
mingling  fiction  with  fact,  I  saw  the  brother  of  W al 
ter  de  Montreal,  with  his  noisy  and  bristling  army, 
crowd  over  the  Campagna,  and  put  up  his  white  tents, 
and  hang  out  his  showy  banners,  on  the  grassy  knolls 
that  lay  nearest  my  eye. 

But  the  knolls  were  all  quiet ;  there  was  not 

so  much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on  them,  to  whistle 
a  mimic  fife-note.  A  little  boy  from  the  inn  went 
with  me  upon  the  hill,  to  look  out  upon  the  town  and 
the  wide  sea  of  land  below  ;  and  whether  it  was  the 
soft,  warm  April  sun,  or  the  gray  ruins  below  me,  or 
whether  the  wonderful  silence  of  the  scene,  or  some 
wild  gush  of  memory,  I  do  not  know,  but  something 
made  rne  sad. 

"  Perche  cod  penseroso  1 — why  so  sad  ?"  said  the 
quick-eyed  boy.  "  The  air  is  beautiful,  the  scene  is 
beautiful ;  Signore  is  young,  why  is  he  sad  ?" 

"  And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?"  said  I. 

"  Quasi  mai,"  said  the  boy,  "  and  if  I  could  travel 
as  Signore,  and  see  other  countries,  I  would  be  al 
ways  gay." 

"  May  you  be  always  that !"  said  I. 


THE    MORNING.  213 

The  good  wish  touched  him  ;  he  took  me  by  the 
arms,  and  said — "  Gro  home  with  me,  Signore  ;  you 
were  happy  at  the  inn  last  night ;  go  back,  and  we 
will  make  you  gay  again  !" 

If  we  could  be  always  boys  ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened  him.  We 
passed  out  shortly  after  from  the  city  gates,  and 
strode  on  over  the  rolling  plain.  Once  or  twice  we 
turned  back  to  look  at  the  rocky  heights  beneath 
which  lay  the  ruined  town  of  Palestrina  ; — a  city  that 
defied  Rome, — that  had  a  king  before  a  ploughshare 
had  touched  the  Capitoline,  or  the  Janiculan  hill  ! 
The  ivy  was  covering  up  richly  the  Etruscan  founda 
tions,  and  there  was  a  quiet  over  the  whole  place. 
The  smoke  was  rising  straight  into  the  sky  from  the 
chimney  tops ;  a  peasant  or  two,  were  going  along 
the  road  with  donkeys ;  beside  this,  the  city  was,  to 
all  appearance,  a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed  to  me 
that  an  old  monk,  whom  I  could  see  with  my  glass, 
near  the  little  chapel  above  the  town,  might  be  going 
to  say  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead  city. 

And  afterward,  when  we  came  near  to  Rome,  and 
passed  under  the  temple  tomb  of  Metella, — my  friend 
said, — "  And  will  you  go  back  now  to  your  home  ? 
or  will  you  sot  off  with  me  to-morrow  for  Ancona  ?" 

"  At  least,  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"  Grod  speed  you !"  said  he,  and  we   parted  upon 


214       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

the  Piazza  di  Venezia, — ho  for  his  last  mass  at  St. 
Peter's,  and  I  for  the  tall  house  upon  the  Corso. 


E  N  R  I  C  A  . 

I  HEAR  her  glancing  feet,  the  moment  I  have  tinkled 
the  bell; — and  there  she  is,  with  her  brown  hair 
gathered  into  braids,  and  her  eyes  full  of  joy,  and 
greeting.  And  as  I  walk  with  the  mother  to  the 
window  to  look  at  some  pageant  that  is  passing, — she 
steals  up  behind,  and  passes  her  arm  around  me,  with 
a  quick  electric  motion,  and  a  gentle  pressure  of 
welcome — that  tells  more  than  a  thousand  words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing  below.  Far 
down  the  street,  we  see  heads  thrust  out  of  the  win 
dows,  and  standing  in  bold  relief  against  the  red 
torch-light  of  the  moving  train.  Below,  dim  figures 
are  gathering  on  the  narrow  side  ways  to  look  at  the 
solemn  spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant  rises  louder,  and 
louder ;  and  half  dies  in  the  night  air,  and  breaks  out 
again  with  new,  and  deep  bitterness. 

Now,  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines  plainly 
on  faces  in  the  windows,  and  on  the  kneeling  women 
in  the  street.  First,  come  old  retainers  of  the  dead 
one,  bearing  long  blazing  flambeaux.  Then  comes  a 
company  of  priests,  two  by  two,  bare-headed,  and 


THE    MORNING.  215 

every  second  one  with  a  lighted  torch,  and  all  are 
chanting. 

Next,  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown  cloaks, 
with  sandalled  feet ; — and  the  red-light  streams  full 
upon  their  grizzled  heads.  They  add  their  heavy 
guttural  voices  to  the  chant,  and  pass  slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests,  in  white  muslin 
capes,  and  black  robes,  and  black  caps, — bearing 
books  in  their  hands,  wide  open,  and  lit  up  plainly 
by  the  torches  of  churchly  servitors,  who  march  be 
side  them;  and  from  the  books,  the  priests  chant 
loud  and  solemnly.  Now,  the  music  is  loudest ;  and 
the  friars  take  up  the  dismal  notes  from  the  white- 
capped  priests,  and  the  priests  before  catch  them  from 
the  brown-robed  friars,  and  mournfully  the  sound  rises 
up  between  the  tall  buildings, — into  the  blue  night- 
sky,  that  lies  between  Heaven  and  Rome. 

— "  Vede — vede  /" — says  Cesare  ;  and  in  a  blaze  of 
the  red-torch  fire,  comes  the  bier,  borne  on  the  necks 
of  stout  friars  ;  and  on  the  bier,  is  the  body  of  a  dead 
man,  habited  like  a  priest.  Heavy  plumes  of  black 
wave  at  each  corner. 

— "  Hist !" — says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  .Enrica  crosses  herself ; 
her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone.  Cesare's  boy-face 
is  grown  suddenly  earnest.  We  could  see  the  pale, 
youthful  features  of  the  dead  man.  The  glaring 


216      REVERIES   or    A   BACHELOR. 

flambeaux,  sent  their  flaunting  streams  of  unearthly 
light  over  the  wan  visage  of  the  sleeper.  A  thousand 
eyes  were  looking  on  him ;  but  his  face  careless  of 
them  all,  was  turned  up,  straight  toward  the  stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises ;  and  companies  of  priests  fol 
low  the  bier,  like  those  who  had  gone  before.  Friars, 
in  brown  cloaks,  and  prelates,  and  Carmelite*)  come 
after — all  with  torches.  Two  by  two — their  voices 
growing  hoarse — they  tramp,  and  chant. 

For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can  hear  the 
rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their  foot-falls,  as  if  your 
ear  was  to  the  earth.  Then  the  chant  rises  again,  as 
they  glide  on  in  a  wavy,  shining  line,  and  rolls  back 
over  the  death-train,  like  the  howling  of  a  wind  in 
winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the  windows. 
The  kneeling  women  upon  the  pavement,  rise  up, 
mindful  of  the  paroxysm  of  Life  once  more.  The 
groups  in  the  door-ways  scatter.  But  their  low 
voices  do  not  drown  the  voices  of  the  host  of  mourn 
ers,  and  their  ghost-like  music. 

1  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier,  trailing  under 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  palaces,  and  at  the 
stream  of  torches,  winding  like  a  glittering,  scaled 

serpent. It  is  a  priest — say  I  to  my  landlady,  as 

she  closes  the  window. 

"  No,  signor, — a  young  man  never  married,  and  so 


THE    MORNINC.  217 

by  virtue  of  his  condition,  they  put  on  him  the  priest- 
robes." 

"  So  I" — says  the  pretty  Enrica — "  if  I  should 
die,  would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you  saw  me  on  a 
carnival  night,  and  be  followed  by  nuns  for  sisters." 

"  A  long  way  off  may  it  be,  Enrica  !" 

She  took  my  hand  in  -hers,  and  pressed  it.  An 
Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of  death ;  and  we 
were  talking  of  it  still,  as  we  walked  back  to  my  little 
parlor — my  hand  all  the  time  in  hers — and  sat  down 
by  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 

It  was  holy  week — never  had  Enrica  looked  more 
sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress, — under  that  long, 
dark  veil  of  the  days  of  Lent.  Upon  the  broad 
pavement  of  St.  Peter's, — where  the  people  flocking 
by  thousands,  made  only  side  groups  about  the  altars 
of  the  vast  temple — I  have  watched  her  kneeling, 
beside  her  mother, — her  eyes  bent  down,  her  lips 
moving  earnestly,  and  her  whole  figure  tremulous  with 
deep  emotion.  Wandering  around  among  the  hal 
berdiers  of  the  Pope,  and  the  court  coats  of  Austria, 
and  the  bare-footed  pilgrims  with  sandal,  shell  and 
staff,  I  would  sidle  back  again,  to  look  upon  that 
kneeling  figure ;  and  leaning  against  the  huge 

columns  of  the  church,  would  dream even  as  I 

am  dreaming  now. 

At   night-fall,  I    urge    ruy  way   into    the    Sistine 
10 


REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Chapel :  Enrica  is  beside  me, — looking  with  me  upon 
the  gaunt  figures  of  the  Judgment  of  Angelo.  They 
are  chanting  the  Miserere.  The  twelve  candle-sticks 
by  the  altar  are  put  out  one  by  one,  as  the  service 
continues.  The  sun  has  gone  down,  and  only  the  red 
glow  of  twilight  steals  through  the  dusky  windows. 
There  is  a  pause,  and  a  brief  reading  from  a  red- 
cloaked  cardinal,  and  all  kneel  down.  She  kneels 
beside  me  :  and  the  sweet,  mournful  flow  of  the 
Miserere  begins  again, — growing  in  force,  and  depth, 
till  the  whole  chapel  rings,  and  the  balcony  of  the 
choir  trembles  :  then,  it  subsides  again  into  the  low 
soft  wail  of  a  single  voice — so  prolonged — so  tremu 
lous,  and  so  real,  that  the  heart  aches,  and  the  tears 

start for  Christ  is  dead  ! 

Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly,  but 

just  as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is  caught  up  by  another 
and  stronger  voice  that  carries  it  on,  plaintive  as 
ever  ; — nor  does  it  stop  with  this — for  just  as  you 
looked  for  silence,  three  voices  more  begin  the 
lament — sweet,  touching,  mournful  voices, — and  bear 
it  up  to  a  full  cry,  when  the  whole  choir  catch  its 
burden,  and  make  the  lament  change  into  the  wailings 
of  a  multitude — wild,  shrill,  hoarse — with  swift  chants 
intervening,  as  if  agony  had  given  force  to  anguish. 
Then,  sweetly,  slowly,  voice  by  voice,  note  by  note, 
the  wailings  sink  into  the  low,  tender,  moan  of  a 


THE    MORNING.  219 

single  singer — faltering,  tremulous,  as  if  tears  checked 
the  utterance  ;  and  swelling  out,  as  if  despair  sustain 
ed  it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel,  when  we  went   out ; 

voices  were   low.     Enrica  said  nothing 1  could 

say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter ;  I  did  not 
love  to  speak  of  it — nor  to  think  of  it.  Rome — that 
old  city,  with  all  its  misery,  and  its  fallen  state,  and 
its  broken  palaces  of  the  Empire — grows  upon  one's 
heart.  The  fringing  shrubs  of  the  coliseum,  flaunting 
their  blossoms  at  the  tall  beggar-men  in  cloaks,  who 
grub  below, — the  sun  glimmering  over  the  mossy  pile 
of  the  House  of  Nero, —  the  sweet  sunsets  from  the 
Pincian,  that  make  the  broad  pine-tops  of  the  Jani- 
culan,  stand  sharp  and  dark  against  a  sky  of  gold, 
cannot  easily  be  left  behind.  And  Enrica  with  her 
silver  brown  hair,  and  the  silken  fillet  that  bound 
it, — and  her  deep  blue  eyes, — and  her  white,  delicate 
fingers, — and  the  blue  veins  chasing  over  her  fair 
temples -ah,  Easter  is  too  near  ! 

But  it  comes  ;  and  passes  with  the  glory  of  St. 
Peter's — lighted  from  top  to  bottom.  With  Enrica — 
I  saw  it  from  the  Ripetta,  as  it  loomed  up  in  the 
distance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day,  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch  of 
flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly-chased  Roman  ring. 


220      REVERIES    OF    A    BACI   ELOR. 

No  fire  blazes  on  tlie  hearth — but  they  are  all  there. 
Warm  days  have  come,  and  the  summer  air,  even 
now,  hangs  heavy  with  fever,  in  the  hollows  of  the 
plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morning  on 
which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not  think  I  slept  very 
well  myself — nor  very  late.  Never  did  Enrica  look 
more  beautiful — nejex—  All  her  Carnival  robes,  and 
"Hie  sad  drapery  of  the  FRIDAY  OF  CRUCIFIXION  could 
not  so  adorn  her  beauty  as  that  neat  morning  dress, 
and  that  simple  rosebud  she  wore  upon  her  bosom. 
She  gave  it  to  me — the  last — with  a  trembling  hand. 
I  did  not,  for  I  could  not,  thank  her.  She  knew  it ; 
and  her  eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek — it  was  the  Roman 
custom,  but  the  custom  did  not  extend  to  the  Roman 
girls  ; — at  least  not  often.  As  I  passed  down  the 
Corso,  I  looked  back  at  the  balcony,  where  she  stood 
in  the  time  of  Carnival,  in  the  brown  Sombrero,  with 
the  white  plume.  I  knew  she  would  be  there  now ; 
and  there  she  was.  My  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  vision, 
very  loth  to  leave  it ;  and  after  my  eyes  had  lost  it, 
my  heart  clung  to  it, — there,  where  my  memory 
clings  now. 

At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the  bills,  to 
ward  Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome.  There  was  a 
stunted  pine  tree  grew  a  little  way  from  the  road,  and 


THE   MORNING.  221 

I  sat  down  under  it, — for  I  wished  no  dinner — and 
I  looked  back  with  strange  tumult  of  feeling,  upon 
the  sleeping  city,  with  the  gray,  billowy  sea  of  the 
Campagna,  lying  around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica — the  Roman  girl,  in  that 
morning  dress,  with  her  brown  hair  in  its  silken  fillet ; 
— but  the  rose-bud  that  was  in  her  bosom,  was  now 
in  mine.  Her  silvery  voice  too,  seemed  to  float  past 
me,  bearing  snatches  of  Roman  songs  ; — but  the  songs 
were  sad  and  broken. 

— —After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity  ! — thought  I :  and 
yet  if  I  had  espied  then  some  returning  carriage 
going  down  toward  Rome,  I  will  not  say — but  that  I 
should  have  hailed  it,  and  taken  a  place, — and  gone 
back,  and  to  this  day,  perhaps — have  lived  at  Rome. 

But  the  vetturino  called  me  ;  the  coach  was  ready  ; 
— I  gave  one  more  look  toward  the  dome  that  guarded 
the  sleeping  city ;  and  then,  we  galloped  down  the 
mountain,  on  the  road  that  lay  towards  Perugia,  and 
Lake  Thrasimenc. 

-Sweet  Enrica  !  art  thou  living  yet  ?  Or  hast 

thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land,  where  the 
good  sleep,  and  the  beautiful  ? 

The  visions  of  the  Past  fade.  The  morning  breeze 
has  died  upon  the  meadow ;  the  Bob-o'-Lincoln  sits 
swaying  on  the  willow  tufts — singing  no  longer.  The 


222       REVER.ESOF    A    BACHELOR. 

trees  lean  to  the  brook ;  but  the  shadows  fall  straight 
and  dense  upon  the  silver  stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky  ;  and  MORN 
ING  is  gone. 


II. 

NOON. 

THE  Noon  is  short ;  the  sun  never  loiters  on  the 
meridian,  nor  does  the  shadow  on  the  old  dial 
by  the  garden,  stay  long  at  XII.  The  Present,  like 
the  noon,  is  only  a  point ;  and  a  point  so  fine,  that  it 
is  not  measurable  by  the  grossness  of  action.  Thought 
alone  is  delicate  enough  to  tell  the  breadth  of  the 
Present. 

The  Past  belongs  to  God :  the  Present  only  is 
ours.  And  short  as  it  is,  there  is  more  in  it,  and  of 
it,  than  we  can  well  manage.  That  man  who  can 
grapple  it,  and  measure  it,  and  fill  it  with  his  purpose, 
is  doing  a  man's  work :  none  can  do  more  :  but  there 
are  thousands  who  do  less. 

Short  as  it  is,  the  Present  is  great  and  strong ; — as 


224  REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR. 

much  stronger  than  the  Past,  as  fire  than  ashes,  or  as 
Death  than  the  grave.  The  noon  sun  will  quicken 
vegetable  life,  that  in  the  morning  was  dead.  It  is 
hot  and  scorching  :  I  feel  it  now  upon  my  head  :  but 
it  does  not  scorch  and  heat  like  the  bewildering 
Present.  There  arc  no  oak  leaves  to  interrupt  the 
rays  of  the  burning  NOW.  Its  shadows  do  not  fall 
cast  or  west ; — like  the  noon,  the  shade  it  makes,  falls 
straight  from  sky  to  earth — straight  from  Heaven  to 
Hell ! 

Memory  presides  over  the  Past ;  Action  presides 
over  the  Present.  The  first  lives  in  a  rich  temple 
hung  with  glorious  trophies,  and  lined  with  tombs  : 
the  other  has  no  shrine  but  Duty,  and  it  walks  the 
earth  like  a  spirit ! 

1  called  my  dog  to  me,  and  we  shared 

together  the  meal  that  I  had  brought  away  at  sunrise 
from  the  mansion  under  the  elms  ;  and  now,  Carlo  is 
gnawing  at  the  bone  that  I  have  thrown  to  him,  and  I 
stroll  dreamily  in  the  quiet  noon  atmosphere,  upon 
that  grassy  knoll,  under  the  oaks. 

Noon  in  the  country  is  very  still :  the  birds  do  not 
sing  :  the  workmen  are  not  in  the  field  :  the  sheep  lay 
their  noses  to  the  ground ;  and  the  herds  stand  in 
pools,  under  shady  trees,  lashing  their  sides, — but 
otherwise,  motionless.  The  mills  upon  the  brook,  far 
above,  have  ceased  for  an  hour  their  labor  ;  and  the 


NOON.  225 

stream  softens  its  rustle,  and  sinks  away  from  the 
sedgy  banks.  The  heat  plays  upon  the  meadow  in 
noiseless  waves,  and  the  beech  leaves  do  not  stir. 

Thought,  I  said,  was  the  only  measure  of  the 
Present :  and  the  stillness  of  noon  breeds  thought : 
and  iny  thought  brings  up  the  old  companions,  and 
stations  them  in  the  domain  of  NOW.  Thought 
ranges  over  the  world,  and  brings  up  hopes,  and  fears, 
and  resolves,  to  measure  the  burning  NOW.  Joy,  and 
grief,  and  purpose,  blending  in  my  thought,  give 
breadth  to  the  Present. 

— Where — though^I — is  little  Isabel  now  ?  Where 
is  Lilly — where  is  Ben  ?  Where  is  Leslie, — where  is 
my  old  teacher  ?  Where  is  my  chum,  who  played 
such  rare  tricks — where  is  the  black-eyed  Jane  ? — 
Where  is  that  sweet-faced  girl  whom  I  parted  with 
upon  that  terrace,  looking  down  upon  the  old  spire  of 
Modbury  church  ?  Where  are  my  hopes — where 
my  purposes — where  my  sorrows  ? 

I  care  not  who  you  are — but  if  you  bring  such 
thought  to  measure  the  Present,  the  present  will 
seem  broad ;  and  it  will  be  sultry  as  noon — and  make 
a  fever  of  Now. 


226       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 


EARLY   FRIENDS. 

WHERE  are  they  ? 

I  cannot  sit  now,  as  once,  upon  the  edge  of  the 
brook,  hour  after  hour,  flinging  off  my  line  and  hook 
to  the  nibbling  roach,  and  reckon  it  great  sport. 
There  is  no  girl  with  auburn  ringlets  to  sit  beside  me, 
and  to  play  upon  the  bank.  The  hours  are  shorter 
than  they  were  then  ;  and  the  little  joys  that  furnished 
boyhood  till  the  heart  was  full^can  fill  it  no  longer. 
Poor  Tray  is  dead,  long  ago  ;  and  he  cannot  swim 
into  the  pools  for  the  floating  sticks  ;  nor  can  I  sport 
with  him  hour  after  hour,  and  think  it  happiness. 
The  mound  that  covers  his  grave  is  sunken  ;  and  the 
trees  that  shaded  it,  are  broken  and  mossy. 

Little  Lilly  is  grown  into  a  woman,  and  is  married  ; 
and  she  has  another  little  Lilly,  with  flaxen  hair,  she 
says, — looking  as  she  used  to  look.  I  dare  say  the 
child  is  pretty ;  but  it  is  not  my  Lilly.  She  has  a 
little  boy  too,  that  she  calls  Paul ; — a  chubby 
rogue — she  writes, — and  as  mischievous  as  ever  I 
was.  Grod  bless  the  boy  ! 

Ben, — who  would  have  liked  a  ride  in  the  coach 
that  carried  me  away  to  school — has  had  a  great 
many  rides  since  then — rough  rides,  and  hard  ones, 


NOON.  227 

over  the  road  of  life.  He  does  not  rake  up  the  falling 
leaves  for  bonfires,  as  he  did  once  ;  he  is  grown  a 
man,  and  is  fighting  his  way  somewhere  in  our 
western  world,  to  the  short-lived  honours  of  time.  He 
was  married  not  long  ago ;  his  wife  I  remembered  as 
one  of  my  playmates  at  my  first  school  :  she  was 
beautiful,  but  fragile  as  a  leaf.  She  died  within  a 
year  of  their  marriage.  Ben  was  but  four  years  my 
senior  ;  but  this  grief  has  made  him  ten  years  older. 
He  does  not  say  it ;  but  his  eye  and  his  figure  tell  it. 

The  nurse  who  put  the  purse  in  my  hand  that  dis 
mal  morning,  is  grown  a  feeble  old  woman.  She  was 
over  fifty  then;  she  may  well  be  seventy  now.  She 
did  not  know  my  voice  when  I  want  to  see  her  the 
other  day,  nor  did  she  know  my  face  at  all.  She 
repeated  the  name  when  I  told  it  to  her — Paul, 
Paul, — she  did  not  remember  any  Paul,  except  a 
little  boy,  a  long  whib  ago. 

"  To  whom  you  gave  a  purse  when  he  went 

away,  and  told  him  to  say  nothing  to  Lilly  or  to 
Ben  ?» 

"  Yes,  that  Paul" — says  the  old  woman  ex- 

ultingly — "  do  you  know  him  r" 

And  when  I  told  her — "  she  would  not  have  believed 
it !"  But  she  did  ;  and  took  hold  of  my  hand  again, 
(for  she  was  blind);  and  then  smoothed  down  the  plaits 
of  her  apron,  and  jogged  her  cap  strings,  to  look  tidy  in 


228      REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

the  presence  of  '  the  gentleman.'  And  she  told  me 
long  stories  about  the  old  house  and  how  other  people 
came  in  afterward  ;  and  she  called  me  '  sir'  sometimes, 
and  sometimes  '  Paul.'  But  I  asked  her  to  say  only 
Paul ;  she  seemed  glad  for  this,  and  talked  easier  ; 
and  went  on  to  tell  of  my  old  playmates,  and  how  we 
used  to  ride  the  pony — poor  Jacko  ! — and  how  we 
gathered  nuts — such  heaping  piles  ;  and  how  we  used 
to  play  at  fox  and  geese  through  the  long  winter 

evenings  ;  and  how  my  poor  mother  would  smile 

but  here  I  asked  her  to  stop.  She  could  not  have 
gone  on  much  longer,  for  I  believe  she  loved  our  house 
and  people,  better  than  she  loved  her  own. 

As  for  my  uncle,  the  cold,  silent  man,  who  lived 
with  his  books  in  the  house  upon  the  hill,  and  who 
used  to  frighten  me  sometimes  with  his  look,  he  grew 
very  feeble  after  I  had  left,  and  almost  crazed.  The 
country  people  said  that  he  was  mad  ;  and  Isabel 
with  her  sweet  heart  clung  to  him,  and  would  lead 
him  out  when  his  step  tottered,  to  the  seat  in  the 
garden,  and  read  to  him  out  of  the  books  he  loved  to 
hear.  And  sometimes,  they  told  me,  she  would  read 
to  him  some  letters  that  I  had  written  to  Lilly  or  to 
Ben,  and  ask  him  if  he  remembered  Paul,  who  saved 
her  from  drowning  under  the  tree  in  the  meadow  ? 
But  he  could  only  shake  his  head,  and  mutter  some 
thing  about  how  old,  and  feeble  he  had  grown. 


NOON.  229 

They  wrote  me  afterward  that  he  died ;  and  was 
buried  in  a  far-away  place,  where  his  wife  once  lived, 
and  where  he  now  sleeps  beside  her.  Isabel  was  sick 
with  grief,  and  came  to  live  for  a  time  with  Lilly  ; 
but  when  they  wrote  me  last,  she  had  gone  back  to 
her  old  home — where  Tray  was  buried, — where  we 
had  played  together  so  often,  through  the  long  days 
of  summer. 

I  was  glad  I  should  find  her  there,  when  I  came 
back.  Lilly  and  Ben  were  both  living  nearer  to  the 
city,  when  I  landed  from  my  long  journey  over  the 
seas  ;  but  still  I  went  to  find  Isabel  first.  Perhaps  I 
had  heard  so  much  oftener  from  the  others,  that  I  felt 
less  eager  to  see  them  ;  or  perhaps  I  wanted  to  save 
my  best  visits  to  the  last ;  or  perhaps — (I  did  think 
it)  perhaps  I  loved  Isabel,  better  than  them  all. 

So  I  went  into  the  country,  thinking  all  the-  way, 
how  she  must  have  changed  since  1  left.  She  must 
be  now  nineteen  or  twenty  ;  and  then  her  grief  must 
have  saddened  her  face  somewhat ;  but  I  thought  I 
should  like  her  all  the  better  for  that.  Then  perhaps 
she  would  not  laugh,  and  tease  me,  but  would  be 
quieter,  and  wear  a  sweet  smile — so  calm,  and  beau 
tiful,  I  thought.  Her  figure  too  must  have  grown 
more  elegant,  and  she  would  have  more  dignity  in  her 
air. 

I  shuddered  a  IHtle  at  this ;  for  I  thought, — she 


-"  '/" 
230      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

will  hardly  think  so  much  of  me  then ;  perhaps  she 
will  have  seen  those  whom  she  likes  a  great  deal  bet 
ter.  Perhaps  she  will  not  like  me  at  all ;  yet  I  knew 
very  well  that  I  should  like  her. 

I  had  gone  up  almost  to  the  house  ;  I  had  passed 
the  stream  where  we  fished  on  that  day,  many  years 
before  ;  and  I  thought  that  now  since  she  was  grown 
to  womanhood,  I  should  never  sit  with  her  there 
again,  and  surely  never  drag  her  as  I  did  out  of  the 
water,  and  never  chafe  her  little  hands,  and  never 
perhaps  kiss  her,  as  I  did,  when  she  sat  upon  my 
mother's  lap — oh,  no — no — no  ! 

I  saw  where  we  buried  Tray,  but  the  old  slab  was 
gone ;  there  was  no  ribbon  there  now.  I  thought 
that  at  least,  Isabel  would  have  replaced  the  slab  ; — 
luut  it  was  a  wrong  thought.  I  trembled  when  I  went 
up  to  the  door — for  it  flashed  upon  me,  that  perhaps, 
— Isabel  was  married.  I  could  not  tell  why  she 
should  not ;  but  I  knew  it  would  make  me  uncom 
fortable,  to  hear  that  she  had. 

There  was  a  tall  woman  who  opened  the  door ;  she 
did  not  know  me  ;  but  I  recognized  her  as  one  of  the 
old  servants.  I  asked  after  the  housekeeper  first, 
thinking  I  would  surprise  Isabel.  My  heart  fluttered 
somewhat,  thinking  that  she  might  step  in  suddenly 
herself — or  perhaps  that  she  might  have  seen  me 


NOON. 


coming  up  the  hill.     Bat  even  then,  I  thought,  she 
would  hardly  know  me. 

Presently  the  housekeeper  came  in,  looking  very 
grave  ;  she  asked  if  the  gentleman  wished  to  see  her  ? 

The  gentleman  did  wish  it,  and  she  sat  down  on 
one  side  of  the  fire  ;  —  for  it  was  autumn,  and  the 
leaves  were  falling,  and  the  November  winds  were 
very  chilly. 

—  Shall  I  tell  her  —  thought  I  —  who  I  am,  or  ask 
at  once  for  Isabel  ?  I  tried  to  ask  ;  but  it  was  hard 
for  me  to  call  her  name  ;  it  was  very  strange,  but  I 
could  not  pronounce  it  at  all. 

"  Who,  sir  ?"  —  said  the  housekeeper,  in  a  tone  so 
earnest,  that  I  rose  at  once,  and  crossed  over,  and 
took  her  hand:  —  "You  know  me,"  said  I,  —  "you 
surely  remember  Paul  ?" 

She  started  with  surprise,  but  recovered  herself, 
and  resumed  the  same  grave  manner.  I  thought  I 
had  committed  some  mistake,  or  been  in  some  way 
cause  of  offence.  I  called  her  —  Madame,  and  asked 
for  —  Isabel  ? 

She  turned  pale,  terribly  pale  —  "  Bella  ?"  said  she 

"Yes,  Bella." 

"  Sir—  Bella  is  dead  !" 

I  dropped  into  my  chair.  I  said  nothing.  The 
housekeeper  —  bless  her  kind  heart  !  —  slipped  noise 
lessly  out.  My  hands  were  over  my  eyes.  The 


232       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

winds  were  sighing  outside,  and  the  clock  ticking 
mournfully  within. 

I  did  not  sob,  nor  weep,  nor  utter  any  cry. 

The  clock  ticked  mournfully,  and  the  winds  were 
sighing ;  but  I  did  not  hear  them  any  longer  ;  there 
was  a  tempest  raging  within  me,  that  would  have 
drowned  the  voice  of  thunder. 

It  broke  at  length  in  a  long,  deep  sigh, — "  oh  God  !" 
— said  I.  It  may  have  been  a  prayer  ; — it  was  not 
an  imprecation. 

Bella — sweet  Bella  was  dead  !  It  seemed  as  if 
with  her,  half  the  world  were  dead — every  bright  face 
darkened — every  sunshine  blotted  out, — every  flower 
withered, — every  hope  extinguished  ! 

I  walked  out  into  the  air,  and  stood  under  the  trees 
where  we  had  played  together  with  poor  Tray — where 
Tray  lay  buried.  But  it  was  not  Tray  I  thought  of, 
as  I  stood  there,  with  the  cold  wind  playing  through 
my  hair,  and  my  eyes  filling  with  tears.  How  could 
she  die  ?  Why  ivas  she  gone  ?  Was  it  really  true  ? 
Was  Isabel  indeed  dead — in  her  coffin — buried  ? 
Then  why  should  anybody  live  ?  What  was  there  to 
live  for,  now  that  Bella  was  gone  ? 

Ah,  what  a  gap  in  the  world,  is  made  by  the  death 
of  those  we  love  !  It  is  no  longer  whole,  but  a  poor 
half-world  that  swings  uneasy  on  its- axis,  and  makes 
you  dizzy  with  the  clatter  of  its  wreck ' 


NOON.  233 

The  housekeeper  told  me  all — little  by  lljtle,  as  I 
found  calmness  to  listen.  She  had  been  dead  a 
month  ;  Lilly  was  with  her  through  it  all ;  she  died 
sweetly,  without  pain,  and  without  fear, — what  can 
angels  fear  ?  She  had  spoken  often  of  '  Cousin  Paul ;' 
she  had  left  a  little  pacquet  for  him,  but  it  was  not 
there  ;  she  had  given  it  into  Lilly's  keeping. 

Her  grave,  the  housekeeper  told  me,  was  only  a 
little  way  off  from  her  home — beside  the  grave  of  a  bro 
ther  who  died  long  years  before.  I  went  there  that 
evening.  The  mound  was  high  and  fresh.  The  sods 
had  not  closed  together,  and  the  dry  leaves  caught  in 
the  crevices,  and  gave  a  ragged  and  a  terrible  look  to 
the  grave.  The  next  day,  I  laid  them  all  smooth — 
as  we  had  once  laid  them  on  the  grave  of  Tray  ; — I 
clipped  the  long  grass,  and  set  a  tuft  of  blue  violets 
at  the  foot,  and  watered  it  all  with — tears.  The 
homestead,  the  trees,  the  fields,  the  meadows — in  the 
windy  November,  looked  dismally.  I  could  not  like 
them  again  ; — I  liked  nothing,  but  the  little  mound, 
that  I  had  dressed  over  Bella's  grave.  There  she 
sleeps  now, — the  sleep  of  Death  ! 


SCHOOL    REVISITED. 

THE  old  school  is  there  still, — with  the  high  cupola 
upon   it,  and  the  long  galleries,  with   the    sl 


234      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

rooms  opening  out  on  either  side,  and  the  corner  cue, 
where  I  slept.  But  the  boys  are  not  there,  nor  the 
old  teachers.  They  have  ploughed  up  the  play-ground 
to  plant  corn,  and  the  apple  tree  with  the  low  limb, 
tfiat  made  our  gymnasium,  is  cut  down. 

I  was  there  only  a  little  time  ago.  It  was  on  a 
Sunday.  One  of  the  old  houses  of  the  village  had 
been  fashioned  into  a  tavern,  and  it  was  there  I 
stopped.  But  I  strolled  by  the  old  one,  and  looked 
into  the  bar-room,  where  I  used  to  gaze  with  wonder 
upon  the  enormous  pictures  of  wild  animals,  which 
heralded  some  coming  menagerie.  There  was  just 
such  a  picture  hanging  still,  and  two  or  three  adver 
tisements  of  sheriffs,  and  a  little  bill  of  a  c  horse  stolen,' 
and — as  I  thought — the  same  brown  pitcher  on  the 
edge  of  the  bar,  I  was  sure  it  was  the  same  great 

O  C 

wood  box  that  stood  by  the  fire  place,  and  the  same 
whip,  and  great  coat  hung  in  the  corner. 

I  was  not  in  so  gay  costume,  as  I  once  thought  I 
would  be  wearing,  when  a  man ;  I  had  nothing  better 
than  a  rusty  shooting  jacket;  but  even  with  this,  I 
was  determined  to  have  a  look  about  the  church,  and 
see  if  I  could  trace  any  of  the  faces  of  the  old  times. 
They  had  sadly  altered  the  building ;  they  had 
cut  out  its  long  galleries,  and  its  old  fashioned  square 
pews,  and  filled  it  with  narrow  boxes,  as  they  do  in 
the  city.  The  pulpit  was  not  so  high,  or  grand  ;  and 


NOON.  235 

it  was  covered  over  with  the  work  of  the  cabinet 
makers. 

I  missed  too  the  old  preacher,  whom  we  all  feared 
so  much  ;  and  in  place  of  him,  was  a  jaunty  looking 
man,  whom  I  thought  I  would  not  be  at  all  afraid  to 
speak  to,  or  if  need  be,  to  slap  on  the  shoulder. 
And  when  I  did  meet  him  after  church,  I  looked  him 
in  the  eye  as  boldly  as  a  lion — what  a  change  was 
that,  from  the  school  days ! 

Here  and  there,  I  could  detect  about  the  church, 
some  old  farmer,  by  the  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  or  by 
a  particular  twist  in  his  nose  ;  and  one  or  two  young 
fellows,  who  used  to  storm  into  the  gallery  in  my 
school  days,  in  very  gay  jackets,  dressed  off  with  rib 
bons, — which  we  thought  was  astonishing  heroism,  and 
admired  accordingly, — were  now  settled  away  into 
fathers  of  families  ;  and  looked  as  demure,  and  peacea 
ble,  at  the  head  of  their  pews,  with  a  white-headed 
boy  or  two  between  them,  and  their  wives,  as  if  they 
had  been  married  all  their  days. 

There  was  a  stout  man  too,  with  a  slight  limp 
in  his  gait,  who  used  to  work  on  harnesses,  and  strap 
our  skates,  and  who  I  always  thought  would  have 
made  a  capital  Vulcan, — he  stalked  up  the  aisle  past 
me,  as  if  I  had  my  skates  strapped  at  his  shop,  only 
yesterday. 

The  bald-pated   shoemaker,  who  never  kept  his 


236         11  EYERIES      OF      A      BACHELOR. 

word,  and  who  worked  in  tbo  brick  shop,  and  who 
had  a  son  called  Theodore, — which  we  all  thought  a 
very  pretty  name  for  a  shoemaker's  son — I  could  not 
find.  I  feared  he  might  be  dead.  I  hoped,  if  he 
was,  that  his  broken  promises  about  patching  boots, 
would  not  come  up  against  him. 

The  old  factor  of  tamarinds  and  sugar  crackers, 
who  used  to  drive  his  covered  waggon  every  Saturday 
evening  into  the  play-ground,  I  observed,  still  holding 
his  place  in  the  village  choir  ;  and  singing — though 
with  a  tooth  or  two  gone, — as  serenely,  and  obstre 
perously  as  ever. 

I  looked  around  the  church,  to  find  the  black-eyed 
girl  who  always  sat  behind  the  choir, — the  one  I 
loved  to  look  at  so  much.  I  knew  she  must  be 
grown  up ;  but  I  could  fix  upon  no  face  positively ; 
once,  as  a  stout  woman  with  a  pair  of  boys,  and  who 
wore  a  big  red  shawl,  turned  half  around,  I  thought  I 
recognized  her  nose.  If  it  was  she,  it  had  grown  red 
though  ;  and  I  felt  cured  of  my  old  fondness.  As  for 
the  other,  who  wore  the  hat  trimmed  with  fur — she 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  among  either  maids,  or  ma* 
trous  ;  and  when  I  asked  the  tavern-keeper,  and  de 
scribed  her,  and  her  father,  as  they  were  in  my 
school-days,  he  told  me  that  she  had  married  too,  and 
lived  some  five  miles  from  the  village  ;  and  said  he, — 
"  I  guess  she  leads  her  husband  a  devil  of  a  life  !" 


NOON.  237 

I  felt  cured  of  her  too ;  but  I  pitied  the  husband. 

One  of  my  old  teachers  was  in  the  church  ;  I  could 
have  sworn  to  his  face;  he  was  a  precise  man";  and 
now  I  thought  he  looked  rather  roughly  at  my  old 
shooting  jacket.  But  I  let  him  look,  and  scowled  at 
him  a  little  ;  for  I  remembered  that  he  had  feruled 
me  once.  I  thought  it  was  not  probable  that  he 
would  ever  do  it  again. 

There  was  a  bustling  little  lawyer  in  the  village, 
who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  who  was  the  great 
man  of  that  town  and  country, — he  had  scarce 
changed  at  all ;  and  he  stepped  into  the  church  as 
briskly,  and  promptly,  as  he  did  ten  years  ago.  But 
what  struck  me  most,  was  the  change  in  a  couple  of 
pretty,  little,  white-haired  girls,  that  at  the  time  I 
left,  were  of  that  uncertain  age,  when  the  mother 
lifts  them  on  a  Sunday,  and  pounces  them  down  one 
after  the  other  upon  the  seat  of  the  pew  ; — these  were 
now  grown  into  blooming  young  ladies.  And  they 
swept  by  me  in  the  vestibule  of  the  church,  with  a 
flutter  of  robes,  and  a  grace  of  motion,  that  fairly 
made  my  heart  twitter  in  my  bosom.  I  know  nothing 
that  brings  home  upon  a  man  so  quick,  the  conscious 
ness  of  increasing  years,  as  to  find  the  little  prattling 
girls,  that  were  almost  babies  in  his  boyhood — become 
dashing  ladies  ; — and  to  find  those  whom  he  used  to 
look  on  patronizingly,  and  compassionately — thinking 


238          II   EYERIES     OF     A     BACHELOR. 

they  were  pretty  little  girls — grown  to  such  maturity, 
that  the  mere  rustle  of  their  silk  dress  will  give  him 
a  twinge ;  and  their  eyes,  if  he  looks  at  them — make 
him  unaccountably  shy. 

After  service  I  strolled  up  by  the  school  build 
ings  5  I  traced  the  names  that  we  had  cut  upon 
the  fence ;  but  the  fence  had  grown  brown  with 
age,  and  was  nearly  rotted  away.  Upon  the  beech 
tree  in  the  hollow  behind  the  school,  the  carv 
ings  were  all  overgrown.  It  must  have  been  vaca 
tion,  if  indeed  there  was  any  school  at  all  ;  for  I 
could  see  only  one  old  woman  about  the  premises, 
and  she  was  hanging  out  a  dishcloth,  to  dry  in  the 
sun.  I  passed  on  up  the  hill,  beyond  the  buildings, 
where  in  the  boy-days,  we  built  stone  forts  with 
bastions  and  turrets  ;  but  the  farmers  had  put 
bastions,  and  turrets,  into  their  cobble-stone  walls. 
At  the  orchard  fence,  I  stopped,  and  looked — from 
force,  I  believe,  of  old  habit, — to  see  if  any  one  were 
watching  ; — and  then  leaped  over,  and  found  my  way 
to  the  early  apple  tree  ;  but  the  fruit  had  gone  by. 
It  seemed  very  daring  in  me,  even  then,  to  walk  so 
boldly  in  the  forbidden  ground. 

But  the  old  head-master  who  forbade  it,  was  dead ; 
and  Russel  and  Burgess,  and  I  know  not  how  many 
others,  who  in  other  times,  were  culprits  with  me, 
were  dead  too.  When  I  passed  back  by  the  school, 


NOON.  239 

I  lingered  to  look  up  at  the  windows  of  that  corner 
room,  where  I  had  slept  the  sound,  healthful  sleep  of 
boyhood, — and  where  too  I  had  passed  many — many 
wakeful  hours,  thinking  of  the  absent  Bella,  and  of 
my  home. 

How  small,  seem   now,  the  great   griefs   of 

boyhood  !  Light  floating  clouds  will  obscure  the  sun 
that  is  but  half  risen  ;  but  let  him  be  up — mid 
heaven,  and  the  cloud  that  then  darkens  the  land, 
must  be  thick,  and  heavy  indeed. 

The  tears    started  from   my  eyes: — was  not 

such  a  cloud  over  me  now  ? 


COLLEGE. 

SCHOOL-MATES  slip  out  of  sight  and  knowledge, 
and  are  forgotten;  or  if  you  meet  them,  they  bear 
another  character  ;  the  boy  is  not  there  It  is  a  new 
acquaintance  that  you  make,  with  nothing  of  your 
fellow  upon  the  benches,  but  the  name.  Though  the 
eye  and  face  cleave  to  your  memory,  and  you  meet 
them  afterward,  and  think  you  have  met  a  friend — 
the  voice  or  the  action  will  break  the  charm,  and  you 
find  only — another  man. 

But  with  your  classmates,  in  that  later  school, 
where  form  and  character  were  both  nearer  ripeness, 


240     REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

and  where  knowledge  labored  for  together,  bred  the 
first  manly  sympathies, — it  is  different.  And  as  you 
meet  them,  or  hear  of  them,  the  thought  of  their 
advance  makes  a  measure  of  your  own — it  makes  a 
measure  of  the  NOW. 

You  judge  of  your  happiness,  by  theirs, — of  your 
progress,  by  theirs,  and  of  your  prospects,  by  theirs. 
If  one  is  happy,  you  seek  to  trace  out  the  way  by 
which  he  has  wrought  his  happiness  ;  you  consider 
how  it  differs  from  your  own  ;  and  you  think  with 
sighs,  how  you  might  possibly  have  wrought  the 
same  ;  but  now  it  has  escaped.  If  another  has  won 
some  honorable  distinction,  you  fall  to  thinking,  how 
the  man — your  old  equal,  as  you  thought,  upon  the 
college  benches — has  outrun  you.  It  pricks  to  effort, 
and  teaches  the  difference  between  now,  and  then. 
Life  with  all  its  duties,  and  hopes,  gathers  upon  your 
Present,  like  a  great  weight,  or  like  a  storm  readv  to 
burst.  It  is  met  anew  ;  it  pleads  more  strongly ;  and 
action  that  has  been  neglected,  rises  before  you — a 
giant  of  remorse. 

Stop  not,  loiter  not,  look  not  backward,  if  you 
would  be  among  the  foremost  !  The  great  Now,  so 
quick,  so  broad,  so  fleeting,  is  yours  ; — in  an  hour  it 
will  belong  to  the  Eternity  of  the  Past.  The  temper 
of  Life  is  to  be  made  good  by  big  honest  blows  ;  stop 
striking,  and  you  will  do  nothing  :  strike  feebly,  and 


NOON.  241 

you  will  do  almost  as  little.  Success  rides  on  every 
hour  :  grapple  it,  and  you  may  win  :  but  without  a 
grapple,  it  will  never  go  with  you.  Work  is  the 
weapon  of  honor,  and  who  lacks  the  weapon,  will 
never  triumph. 

There  were  some  seventy  of  us — all  scattered  now. 
I  meet  one  here  and  there  at  wide  distances  apart ; 
and  we  talk  together  of  old  days,  and  of  our  present 
work  and  life, — and  separate.  Just  so  ships  at  sea, 
in  murky  weather,  will  shift  their  course  to  come 
within  hailing  distance,  and  compare  their  longitude, 

and part.  One  I  have  met  wandering  in  southern 

Italy,  dreaming  as  I  was  dreaming — over  the  tomb 
of  Virgil,  by  the  dark  grotto  of  Pausilippo.  It  seemed 
strange  to  talk  of  our  old  readings  in  Tacitus  there 
upon  classic  ground  ;  but  we  did ;  and  ran  on  to  talk 
of  our  lives  ;  and  sitting  down  upon  the  promontory 
of  Baie,  looking  off  upon  that  blue  sea,  as  clear  as  the 
classics,  we  told  each  other  our  respective  stories. 
And  two  nights  after,  upon  the  quay,  in  sight  of 
Vesuvius,  which  shed  a  lurid  glow  upon  the  sky,  that 
was  reflected  from  the  white  walls  of  the  Hotel  de 
Russie,  and  from  the  broad  lava  pavements,  we  parted 
— he  to  wander  among  the  isles  of  the  ^gean,  and  I 
to  turn  northward. 

Another  time,  as  I  was  wandering  among  those 
mysterious  figures  that  crowd  the  foyer  of  the  French 
11 


242          11  E  V  E  R  I  E  S    O  F      A      BACHELOR. 

opera  upon  a  night  of  the  Masked  Ball,  I  saw  a 
familiar  face  :  I  followed  it  with  my  eye,  until  I  be 
came  convinced.  He  did  not  know  me  until  I  named 
his  old  seat  upon  the  bench  of  the  Division  Room, 

and  the  hard-faced   Tutor  G .     Then  we  talked 

of  the  old  rivalries,  and  Christmas  jollities,  and  of  this 
and  that  one,  whom  we  had  come  upon  in  our  wayward 
tracks  ;  while  the  black-robed  grisettes  stared  through 
their  velvet  masks  ; — nor  did  we  tire  of  comparing 
the  old  memories,  with  the  unearthly  gaiety  of  the 
scene  about  us,  until  day-light  broke. 

In  a  quiet  mountain  town  of  New  England,  I  came 
not  long  since  upon  another :  he  was  hale  and  hearty, 
and  pushing  his  lawyer  work  with  just  the  samo 
nervous  energy,  with  which  he  used  to  recite  a  theo 
reni  of  Euclid.  He  was  father  too  of  a  couple  of 
stout,  curly-pated  boys  ;  and  his  good  woman,  as  he 
called  her,  appeared  a  sensible,  honest,  good-natured 
lady.  I  must  say  that  I  envied  him  his  wife,  much 
more  than  I  had  envied  my  companion  of  the  opera — 
his  Domino. 

I  happened  only  a  little  while  ago  to  drop  into  tho 
college  chapel  of  a  Sunday.  There  were  the  same 
hard  oak  benches  below,  and  the  lucky  fellows  who 
enjoyed  a  corner  seat,  were  leaning  back  upon  the 
rail,  after  the  old  fashion.  The  tutors  were  perched 
up  in  their  side  boxes,  looking  as  prim,  and  serious, 


NOON.  243 

and  important,  as  ever  The  same  stout  Doctor  read 
the  hymn  in  the  same  rhythmical  way  ;  and  he  prayed 
the  same  prayer,  for  (I  thought)  the  same  old  sort  of 
sinners.  As  I  shut  my  eyes  to  listen,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  intermediate  years  had  all  gone  out ;  and  that  I 
was  on  my  own  pew  bench,  and  thinking  out  those  ; 
little  schemes  for  excuses,  or  for  effort,  which  were  to 
relieve  me,  or  to  advance  me,  in  my  college  world. 

There  was  a  pleasure,  like  tli3  pleasure  of  dreaming 
about  forgotten  joys — in  listening  to  the  Doctor's 
sermon :  he  began  in  the  same  half  embarrassed,  half 
awkward  way ;  and  fumbled  at  his  Bible  leaves,  and 
the  poor  pinched  cushion,  as  he  did  long  before.  But 
as  he  went  on  with  his  rusty  and  polemic  vigour,  the 
poetry  within  him  would  now  and  then  warm  his  soul 
into  a  burst  of  fervid  eloquence,  and  his  face  would 
glow,  and  his  hand  tremble,  and  the  cushion  and  the 
Bible  leaves  be  all  forgot,  in  the  glow  of  his  thought, 
until  with  a  half  cough,  and  a  pinch  at  the  cushion, 
he  fell  back  into  his  strong,  but  tread-mill  argu 
mentation. 

In  the  corner  above,  was  the  stately,  white-haired 
professor,  wearing  the  old  dignity  of  carriage,  and  a 
smile  as  bland,  as  if  the  years  had  all  been  playthings  ; 
and  had  I  seen  him  in  his  lecture-room,  I  daresay  I 
should  have  found  the  same  suavity  of  address,  the 


244       REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR, 

same  marvellous  currency  of  talk,  and  the  same  infi 
nite  composure  over  the  exploding  retorts. 

Near  him  was  the  silver-haired  old  gentleman, — 
•with  a  very  astute  expression, — who  used  to  have  an 
odd  habit  of  tightening  his  cloak  about  his  nether  limbs. 
I  could  not  see  that  his  eye  was  any  the  less  bright ; 
nor  did  he  seem  less  eager  to  catch  at  the  handle  of 
some  witticism,  or  bit  of  satire, — to  the  poor  student's 
cost.  I  remembered  my  old  awe  of  him,  I  must  say, 
with  something  of  a  grudge  ;  but  I  had  got  fairly 
over  it  now.  There  are  sharper  griefs  in  life,  than  a 
professor's  talk. 

Farther  on,  I  saw  the  long-faced,  dark -haired  man, 
who  looked  as  if  he  were  always  near  some  explosive, 
electric  battery,  or  upon  an  insulated  stool.  He  was, 
I  believe,  a  man  of  fine  feelings  ;  but  he  had  a  way  of 
reducing  all  action  to  dry,  hard,  mathematical  sys 
tem,  with  very  little  poetry  about  it.  I  know  there 
was  not  much  poetry  in  his  problems  in  physics,  and 
still  less  in  his  half-yearly  examinations.  But  T  do 
not  dread  them  now. 

Over  opposite,  I  was  glad  to  see  still,  the  agod 
head  of  the  kind,  and  generous  old  man,  who  in  my 
day  presided  over  the  college  ;  and  who  carried  with 
him  the  affections  of  each  succeeding  class, — added  to 
their  respect  for  his  learning.  This  seems  a  higher 
triumph  to  me  now,  :han  it  seemed  then.  A  strong 


NOON.  245 

mind,  or  a  cultivated  niind  may  challenge  respect  ; 
but  there  is  needed  a  noble  one,  to  win  affection. 

A  new  man  now  filled  his  place  in  the  president's 
seat ;  but  he  was  one  whom  I  had  known,  and  been 
proud  to  know.  His  figure  was  bent,  and  thin — the 
very  figure  that  an  old  Flemish  master  would  have 
chosen,  for  a  scholar.  His  eye  had  a  kind  of  piercing 
lustre,  as  if  it  had  long  been  fixed  on  books  ;  and  his 
expression — when  unrelieved  by  his  affable  smile — 
was  that  of  hard  midnight  toil.  With  all  his  polish 
of  mind,  he  was  a  gentleman  at  heart ;  and  treated  us 
always  with  a  manly  courtes\T,  that  is  not  forgotten. 

But  of  all  the  faces  that  used  to  be  ranged  below 
— four  hundred  men  and  boys — there  was  not  .one, 
with  whom  to  join  hands,  and  live  back  again.  Their 
griefs,  joys,  and  toil,  were  chaining  them  to  their 
labor  of  life.  Each  one  in  his  thought,  coursing  over 
a  world  as  wide  as  my  own ; — how  many  thousand 
worlds  of  thought,  upon  this  one  world  of  ours  ! 

I  stepped  dreamily  through  tho  corridors  of  the  old 
Atheneum,  thinking  of  that  first,  fearful  step,  when 
the  faces  were  new,  and  the  stern  tutor  was  strange, 
and  the  prolix  Livy  so  hard.  I  went  up  at  night,  and 
skulked  around  the  buildings,  when  the  lights  were 
blazing  from  alj  the  windows,  and  they  were  busy 
with  their  tasks — plain  tasks,  and  easy  tasks, — because 
they  are  certain  tasks.  Happy  fellows — thought  I — 


246      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

who  have  only  to  do,  what  is  sst  before  you  to  bo 
done.  But.  the  time  is  coming,  and  very  fast,  when 
you  must  not  only  do,  but  know  what  to  do.  The 
time  is  coming,  when  in  place  of  your  one  master,  you 
will  have  a  thousand  masters — -masters  of  duty,  of 
business,  of  pleasure,  and  of  grief — giving  you  harder 
lessons  each  one  of  them,  than  any  of  your  Fluxions. 
MORNING  will  pass,  and  the  NDON  will  come — hot, 
and  scorching. 


THE   PACQUET    OF    BELLA. 

I  HAVE  not  forgotten  that  pacquet  of  Bella ;  I  did 
Dot  once  forget  it.  And  when  I  saw  Lilly — now  the 
grown  up  Lilly,  happy  in  her  household,  and  blithe 
as  when  she  was  a  maiden,  she  gave  it  to  me.  She  told 
me  too  of  Bella's  illness,  and  of  her  suffering,  and  of 
her  manner,  when  she  put  the  little  pacquet  in  her 
hand  'for  Cousin  Paul.'  But  this  I  will  not  repeat ; 
— I  cannot. 

I  know  not  why  it  was,  but  I  shuddered  at  the 
mention  of  her  name.  There  are  some  who  will  talk, 
at  table,  and  in  their  gossip,  of  dead  friends  ;  I  won 
der  haw  they  do  it  ?  For  myself,  when  the  grave  has 
closed  its  gates  on  the  faces  of  those  I  love — however 
busy  my  mournful  thought  may  be,  the  tongue  is 


NOON.  247 

silent.  I  cannot  name  their  names  ;  it  shocks  me  to 
hear  them  named.  It  seems  like  tearing  open  half- 
healed  wounds,  and  disturbing  with  harsh  worldly 
noise,  the  sweet  sleep  of  death. 

I  loved  Bella.  I  know  not  how  I  loved  her, — - 
whether  as  a  lover,  or  as  a  husband  loves  a  wife ;  I 
only  know  this, — I  always  loved  her.  She  was  so 
gentle — so  beautiful, — so  confiding,  that  I  never  once 
thought,  but  that  the  whole  world  loved  her,  as  well 
as  I.  There  was  only  one  thing  I  never  told  to 

Bella  ; 1  would  tell  her  of  all  my  grief,  and  of  all 

my  joys ;  I  would  tell  her  my  hopes,  my  ambitious 
dreams,  my  disappointments,  my  anger,  and  my  dis 
likes  ; — but  I  never  told  her  how  much  I  loved  her. 

I  do  not  know  why,  unless  I  knew  that  it  was  need 
less.  But  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  tellin^ 

O  O 

Bella  on  some  winter's  day — Bella,  it  is  winter  ! — or 
of  whispering  to  her  on  some  balmy  day  of  August — 
Bella,  it  is  summer  ! — as  of  telling  her,  after  she  had 
grown  to  girlhood. — Bella,  I  love  you ! 

I  had  received  one  letter  from  her  in  the  old  coun 
tries  ;  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  in  which  she  told  me  all 
that  she  had  been  doing,  and  how  she  had  thought  of 
me,  when  she  rambled  over  the  woods  where  we  had 
rambled  together.  She  had  written  two  or  three 
other  letters,  Lilly  told  me,  but  they  had  never 
reached  me.  I  had  told  her  too  of  all  that  made  my 


248      REVERIES    OF    A    I>  v  j  H  i:  L  o  R  . 

happiness ;  I  wrote  her  about  the  sweet  girl  I  had 
seen  on  shipboard,  and  how  I  met  her  afterward,  and 
what  a  happy  time  we  passed  down  in  Devon.  I 
even  told  her  of  the  strange  dream  I  had,  in  which 
Isabel  seemed  to  be  in  England,  and  to  turn  away  from 
me  sadly,  because  I  called  her — Carry. 

I  also  told  her  of  all  I  saw  in  that  great  world  of 
Paris — writing,  as  I  would  write  to  a  sister  ;  and  I 
told  her  too  of  the  sweet  Roman  girl,  Enrica — of  her 
brown  hair,  and  of  her  rich  eyes,  and  of  her  pretty 
Carnival  dresses.  And  when  I  missed  letter  after 
letter,  I  told  her  that  she  must  still  write  her 
letters,  or  some  little  journal,  and  read  it  to  me  when 
I  came  back.  I  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to 
sit  under  the  trees  by  her  father's  house,  and  listen 
to  her  tender  voice  going  through  that  record  of  her 
thoughts,  and  fears.  Alas,  how  our  hopes  betray 
us! 

It  began  almost  like  a  diary,  about  the  time  that 
her  father  fell  sick.  "  It  is" — said  she  to  Lilly,  when 
she  gave  it  to  her,  "  what  I  would  have  said  to  Cousin 
Paul,  if  he  had  been  here." 

It  begins  " — I  have  come  back  now  to  father's 

house  ;  I  could  not  leave  him  alone,  for  they  told  me 
he  was  sick.  I  found  him  not  well ;  he  was  very 
glad  to  see  me,  and  kissed  me  so  tenderly  that  I  am  sure. 


NOON.  249 

Cousin  Paul,  you  would  not  have  said,  as  you  used  to 
say — that  he  was  a  cold  man  !  I  sometimes  read  to 
him,  sitting  in  the  deep  library  window,  (you  remem 
ber  it,)  where  we  used  to  nestle  out  of  his  sight,  at 
dusk.  He  cannot  read  any  more. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  see  the  little  Carry  you 
speak  of ;  but  do  you  know  you  did  not  describe  her 
to  me  at  all ;  will  you  not  tell  me  if  she  has  dark 
hair,  or  light,  or  if  her  eyes  are  blue,  or  dark,  like 
mine  ?  Is  she  good  ;  did  she  not  make  ugly  speeches, 
or  grow  peevish,  in  those  long  days  upon  the  ocean  ? 
How  I  would  have  liked  to  have  been  with  you,  on 
those  clear  starlit  nights,  looking  off  upon  the  water ! 
But  then  I  think  that  you  would  not  have  wished  me 
there  ;  and  that  you  did  not  once  think  of  me  even. 
This  makes  me  sad  ;  yet  I  know  not  why  it  should ; 
for  I  always  liked  you  best,  when  you  were  happy ; 
and  I  am  sure  you  must  have  been  happy  then.  You 
say  you  shall  never  see  her  after  you  have  left  the 
ship  : — you  must  not  think  so,  Cousin  Paul ;  if  she  is 
so  beautiful,  and  fond,  as  you  tell  me,  your  own  heart 
will  lead  you  in  her  way,  some  time  again  ;  I  feel 
almost  sure  of  it. 

*  *     u  ;Fatuer  js  getting  more  and  more 

feeble,  and  wandering  in  his  mind ;  this  is  very  dreadful ; 
he  calls  me  sometimes  by  my  mother's  name ;  and 
U* 


250      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

when  I  say — it  is  Isabel, — he  says — -what  Isabel  ' 
and  treats  me  as  if  I  was  a  stranger.  The  physician 
shakes  his  head  when  I  ask  him  of  father  :  oh,  Paul, 
if  he  should  die — what  could  I  do  ?  I  should  die  too — 
I  know  I  should.  Who  would  there  be  to  care  for  me  ? 
Lilly  is  married,  and  Ben  is  far  off,  and  you  Paul,  whom 
I  love  better  than  either,  are  a  long  way  from  me. 
But  God  is  good,  and  he  will  spare  my  father. 

*  *     "  So  you  have  seen  again  your  little 

Carry !  I  told  you  it  would  be  so.  You  tell  me 
how  accidental  it  was  : — ah,  Paul,  Paul,  you  rogue, 
honest  as  you  are,  I  half  doubt  you  there !  I  like 
your  description  of  her  too  : — dark  eyes  like  mine  you 
say — '  almost  as  pretty ;'  well,  Paul,  I  will  forgive  you 
that ;  it  is  only  a  white  lie.  You  know  they  must  be 
a  great  deal  prettier  than  mino.  or  you  would  never 
have  stayed  a  whole  fortnight  in  an  old  farmer's 
house,  far  down  in  Devon  !  I  wish  I  could  see  her  : 
I  wish  she  was  here  with  you  now  ;  for  it  is  mid 
summer,  and  the  trees  and  flowers  were  never  prettier. 
But  I  am  all  alone  ;  father  is  too  ill  to  go  out  at  all. 
I  fear  now  very  much,  that  he  will  never  go  out 
again.  Lilly  was  here  yesterday,  but  he  did  not 
know  her.  She  read  me  your  last  letter  :  it  was  not 
so  long  as  mine.  You  are  very — very  good  to  me, 
Paul. 


NOON.  251 

*  *     "  For  a  long  time   I  have  written 
nothing :   my  father  has  been  very  ill,  and  the   old 
housekeeper  has  been  sick  too,  and  father  would  have 
no  one  but  me  near  him.     He  cannot  live  long.     I 
feel  sadly — miserably ;  you  will  not  know  me  when 
you  come  home  ;  your  "  pretty  Bella1' — as  you  used 
to  call  me,  will  have  lost  all  her  beauty.     But  perhaps 
you  will  not  care  for  that,  for  you  tell  me  you  have 
found  one  prettier  than  ever.     I  do  not  know,  Cousin 
Paul,  but  it  is  because  I  am  so  sad,  and  selfish — for 
sorrow  is  selfish — but  I    lo  not  like  your  raptures 
about  the  Roman  girl.     Bo   careful,  Paul  :   I  know 
your  heart :  it  is  quick  and  sensitive  ;  and  I  dare  say 
she  is  pretty,  and  has  beautiful  eyes  ;  for  they  tell  mo 
all  the  Italian  girls  have  soft  eyes. 

"  But  Italy  is  far  away,  Paul  ;  I  can  never  see 
Enrica  ;  she  will  never  come  here.  No — no,  remem 
ber  Devon  :  I  feel  as  if  Carry  was  a  sister  now :  I 
cannot  feel  so  of  the  Roman  girl :  I  do  not  want  to 
feel  so.  You  will  say  this  is  harsh  ;  and  I  am  afraid 
you  will  not  like  me  so  well  for  it ;  but  I  cannot  help 
saying  it.  I  love  you  too  well,  Cousin  Paul,  not  to 
say  it. 

*  *         *     "  It  is  all  over  !     Indeed,  Paul,  I 
am  very  desolate  !     'The  golden  bowl  is  broken' — 
my  poor  father  has  gone  to  his  last  home.     I  was 


252       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

expecting  it ;  but  how  can  wo  expect  that  fearful 
comer — death  ?  He  had  been  for  a  long  time  so 
feeble,  that  he  could  scarce  speak  at  all :  he  sat  for 
hours  in  his  chair,  looking  upon  the  fire,  or  looking 
out  at  the  window.  He  would  hardly  notice  me  when 
I  came  to  change  his  pillows,  or  to  smooth  them  for 
his  head.  But  before  he  died,  he  knew  me  as  well  as 
ever.  '  Isabel,'  he  said,  '  you  have  been  a  good 
daughter  :  God  will  reward  you!'  and  he  kissed  me 
so  tenderly,  and  looked  after  me  so  anxiously,  with 
such  intelligence  in  his  look,  that  I  thought  perhaps 
he  would  revive  again.  In  the  evening  he  asked  me 
for  one  of  his  books,  that  he  loved  very  much. 
i  Father,'  said  I,  c  you  cannot  read ;  it  is  almost 
dark.' 

" c  Oh,  yes,'  said  he  ;  '  Isabel,  I  can  read  now.' 
And  I  brought  it ;  he  kept  my  hand  a  long  while ; 
then  he  opened  the  book ; — it  was  a  book  about 
death. 

"  I  brought  a  candle,  for  I  knew  he  could  not  read 
without. 

"  '  Isabel,  dear,'  said  he,  '  put  the  candle  a  little 
nearer.'  But  it  was  close  beside  him  even  then. 

"  '  A  little  nearer,  Isabel,' — repeated  he,  and  his 
voice  was  very  faint ;  and  he  grasped  my  hand  hard. 

"  ' Nearer,  Isabel ! nearer  !' 

11  There  was  no  need  to  do  it,  for  my  poor  father  was 


NOON.  253 

dead  !  Ob  !  Paul,  Paul ! — pity  me.  I  do  not  know 
but  I  am  crazed.  It  does  not  seem  the  same  world 
it  was.  And  tbe  house,  and  the  trees,  oh,  they  are 
very  dismal  ! 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  home,  Cousin  Paul :  life 
would  not  be  so  very — very  blank  as  it  is  now. 
Lilly  is  kind  ; — I  thank  her  from  my  heart.  But  it 
is  not  her  father  who  is  dead  ! 

*  "  I  am  calmer  now  ;  I  am  staying 
with  Lilly.     The  world  seems  smaller  than  it  did  ; 
but  Heaven  seems   a  great  deal  larger  :  there  is  a 
place  for  us  all  there,  Paul, — if    we  only  seek  it  ! 
They  tell    me   you   are   coming   home :   I  am  glad. 
You  will  not  like  perhaps  to  come  away  from  that 
pretty  Enrica,  you  speak  of;  but   do  so,  Paul.     It 
seems  to  me  that  I  see  clearer  than  I  did,  and  I  talk 
bolder.     The  girlish  Isabel  you  will  not  find,  for  I 
am  much  older,  and  my  air  is  more  grave  ;  and  this 
suffering  has  made  me  feeble — very  feeble. 

*  "  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  write  ;  but 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  just  found  out  who  your 
Carry  is.     Years  ago,  when  you  were  away  from  home, 
I  was  at  school  with  her.     We  were  always  together. 
I  wonder  I  could  not  have  found  her  out  from  your 
description  ;  but  I  did  not  even  suspect  it      She  is  a 


254      REV  E-ff'i  E  s    OF     v    BACHELOR. 

dear  girl,  and  is  worthy  of  all  your  love.  I  have  seen 
her  once  since  you  have  met  her:  we  talked  of  you. 
She  spoke  kindly — very  kindly :  more  than  this,  I 
cannot  tell  you,  for  I  do  not  know  more.  Ah,  Paul, 
may  you  be  happy :  I  feel  as  if  I  had  but  a  little  while 
to  live. 

*  *  "  It  is  even  so,  my  dear  Cousin 
Paul, — I  shall  write  but  little  more  ;  my  hand  trem 
bles  now.  But  I  am  ready.  It  is  a  glorious  world 
beyond  this — I  know  it  is  !  And  there  we  shall 
meet.  I  did  hope  to  see  you  once  again,  and  to  hear 
your  voice,  speaking  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak. 
But  I  shall  not.  Life  is  too  frail  with  me.  I  seem 
to  live  wholly  now  in  the  world  where  I  am  going  : — 
there  is  my  mother,  and  my  father,  and  my  little 
brother — we  shall  meet — I  know  we  shall  meet ! 

•-.**'«  The  last— Paul.  Never  again  in 
this  world  !  I  am  happy — very  happy.  You  will 
come  to  me.  I  can  write  no  more.  May  good  angels 
guard  you,  and  bring  you  to  Heaven  !" 

Shall  I  go  on  ? 

But  the  toils  of  life  are  upon  me.  Private  griefs 
do  not  break  the  force,  and  the  weight  of  the  great — 
Present  A  life — at  best  the  half  of  it,  is  before  me. 


NOON. 


It  is  to  be  wrought  out  with  nerve  and  work.  And — 
blessed  be  God  ! — there  are  gleams  of  sunlight  upon 
it.  That  sweet  Carry,  doubly  dear  to  me  now, 
that  she  is  joined  with  my  sorrow  for  the  lost  Isabel, 

shall  be  sought  for  ! 

And  with  her  sweet  image  floating  before  me,  the 
NOON  wanes,  and  the  shadows  of  EVENING  lengthen 
upon  the  land. 


III. 

EVENING. 

THE  Future  is  a  great  land : — how  the  lights, 
and  the  shadows  throng  over  it, — bright  and 
dark,  slow  and  swift ! 

Pride  and  Ambition  build  up  groat  castles  on  its 
plains, — great  monuments  on  the  mountains,  that 
reach  heavenward,  and  dip  their  tops  in  the  blue  of 
Eternity  !  Then  comes  an  earthquake — the  earth 
quake  of  disappointment,  of  distrust,  or  of  inaction, 
and  lays  them  low.  Gaping  desolation  widens  its 
breaches  everywhere ;  the  eye  is  full  of  them,  and 
can  see  nothing  beside.  By  and  by,  the  sun  peeps 
forth, — as  now  from  behind  yonder  cloud — and  rean 
imates  the  soul. 

Fame   beckons,  sitting  high  in  the  heavens ;  and 


EVENING.  257 

joy  lends  a  halo  to  the  vision.  A  thousand  resolves 
stir  your  heart ;  your  hand  is  hot,  and  feverish  for 
action ;  your  brain  works  madly,  and  you  snatch 
here,  and  you  snatch  there,  in  the  convulsive  throes 
of  your  delirium.  Perhaps  you  see  some  earnest, 
careful  plodder,  once  far  behind  you,  now  toiling 
slowly  but  surely,  over  the  plain  of  life,  until  he  seems 
near  to  grasping  those  brilliant  phantoms  which  dance 
along  the  horizon  of  the  future  ;  and  the  sight  stirs 
your  soul  to  frenzy,  and  you  bound  on  after  him  with 
the  madness  of  a  fever  in  your  veins.  But  it  was  by 
no  such  action,  that  the  fortunate  toiler  has  won  his 
progress.  His  hand  is  steady,  his  brain  is  cool ;  his 
eye  is  fixed,  and  sure. 

The  Future  is  a  great  land  ;  a  man  cannot  go  round 
it  in  a  day  ;  he  cannot  measure  it  with  a  bound  ;  he 
cannot  bind  its  harvests  into  a  single  sheaf.  It  is 
wider  than  the  vision,  and  has  no  end. 

Yet  always,  day  by  day,  hour  by  hour,  second  by 
second,  the  hard  Present  is  elbowing  us  off  into  that 
great  land  of  the  Future.  Our  souls  indeed,  wander 
to  it,  as  to  a  home-land  ;  they  run  beyond  time  and 
space,  beyond  planets  and  suns,  beyond  far-off  suns 
and  comets,  until  like  blind  flies,  they  are  lost  in  the 
blaze  of  immensity,  and  can  only  grope  their  way 
back  to  our  earth,  and  our  time,  by  the  cunning  of 
instinct. 


258      REVERIES    OF    A     BACHELOR. 

Cut  out  the  Future — even  that  little  Future,  which 
is  the  EVENING  of  our  life,  and  what  a  fall  into 
vacuity  !  Forbid  those  earnest  forays  over  the  bor 
ders  of  Now,  and  on  what  spoils  would  the  soul  live  ? 

For  myself,  I  delight  to  wander  there,  and  to 
weave  every  day,  the  passing  life,  into  the  coming 
life, — so  closely,  that  I  may  be  unconscious  of  the 
joining.  And  if  so  be  that  I  am  able,  I  would  make 
the  whole  piece  bear  fair  proportions,  and  just  figures, 
— like  those  tapestries,  on  which  nuns  work  by  inches, 
and  finish  with  their  lives  ; — or  like  those  grand  fres 
cos,  which  poet  artists  have  wrought  on  the  vaults  of 
old  cathedrals,  gaunt,  and  colossal, — appearing  mere 
daubs  of  carmine  and  azure,  as  they  lay  upon  their 
backs,  working  out  a  hand's  breadth  at  a  time, — but 
when  complete,  showing — symmetrical,  and  glorious  ! 

But  not  alone  does  the  soul  wander  to  those  glit 
tering  heights  where  fame  sits,  with  plumes  waving  in 
zephyrs  of  applause ;  there  belong  to  it,  other  ap 
petites,  which  range  wide;  and  constantly  over  the 
broad  Future-land.  We  are  not  merely,  working,  in 
tellectual  machines,  but  social  puzzles,  whoso  solution, 
is  the  work  of  a  life.  Much  as  hope  may  lean  toward 
the  intoxicating  joy  of  distinction,  there  is  another 
leaning  in  the  soul,  deeper,  and  stronger,  toward  those 
pleasures  which  the  heart  pants  for,  and  in  whose 
atmosphere,  the  affections  bloom  and  ripen. 


EVENING.  259 

The  first  may  indeed  bo  uppermost ;  it  may  be 
noisiest ;  it  may  drown  with  the  clamor  of  mid-day, 
the  nicer  sympathies.  But  all  our  day  is  not  mid 
day  ;  and  all  our  life  is  not  noise.  Silence  is  as  strong 
as  the  soul ;  and  there  is  no  tempest  so  wild  with 
blasts,  but  has  a  wilder  lull.  There  lies  in  the  depth 
of  every  man's  soul  a  mine  of  affection,  which  from 
time  to  time  will  burn  with  the  seething  heat  of  a 
volcano,  and  heave  up  lava-like  monuments,  through 
all  the  cold  strata  of  his  commoner  nature. 

One  may  hide  his  warmer  feelings  ; — he  may  paint 
them  dimly ; — he  may  crowd  them  out  of  his  sailing 
chart,  where  he  only  sets  down  the  harbors  for  traffic  ; 
yet  in  his  secret  heart,  he  will  map  out  upon  the 
great  country  of  the  Future,  fairy  islands  of  love,  and 
of  joy.  There,  he  will  be  sure  to  wander,  when  his 
soul  is  lost  in  those  quiet  and  hallowed  hopes,  which 
take  hold  on  Heaven. 

Love  only,  unlocks  the  door  upon  that  Futurity, 
where  the  isles  of  the  blessed,  lie  like  stars.  Affec 
tion  is  the  stepping  stone  to  God.  The  heart  is  our 
only  measure  of  infinitude.  The  mind  tires  with 
greatness;  the  heart — never.  Thought  is  worried 
and  weakened  in  its  flight  through  the  immensity  of 
space  j  but  Love  soars  around  the  throne  of  the 
Highest,  with  added  blessing  and  strength. 

I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others,  but  with 


260      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

me,  the  heart  is  a  readier,  and  quicker  builder  of 
those  fabrics  which  strew  the  great  country  of  the 
Future,  than  the  mind.  They  may  not  indeed  rise 
so  high,  as  the  dizzy  pinnacles  that  ambition  loves  to 
rear ;  but  they  lie  like  fragrant  islands,  in  a  sea, 
whose  ripple  is  a  continuous  melody. 

And  as  I  muse  now,  looking  toward  the  EVENING, 
which  is  already  begun, — tossed  as  I  am,  with  the 
toils  of  the  Past,  and  bewildered  with  the  vexations 
of  the  Present,  my  affection;;  are  the  architect,  that 
build  up  the  future  refuge.  And,  in  fancy  at  least,  I 
will  build  it  boldly; — saddened  it  may  be,  by  the 
chance  shadows  of  evening ;  but  through  all,  I  will 
hope  for  a  sunset,  when  the  day  ends,  glorious  with 
crimson,  and  gold. 


CARRY. 

I  SAID  that  harsh,  and  hot  as  was  the  Present, 
there  were  joyous  gleams  of  light  playing  over  the 
Future.  How  else  could  it  be,  when  that  fair  being 
whom  I  met  first  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  and  whose 
name  even,  is  hallowed  by  the  dying  words  of  Isabel, 
is  living  in  the  same  world  with  me  ?  Amid  all  the 
perplexities  that  haunt  me,  as  I  wander^from  the 
present  to  the  future,  the  thought  of  her  image,  of 


EVENING.  261 

her  smile,  of  her  last  kind  adieu,  throws  a  dash  of 
sunlight  upon  my  path. 

And  yet  why  ?  Is  it  not  very  idle  ?  Years  have 
passed  since  I  have  seen  her :  I  do  not  even  know 
where  she  may  v:e.  What  is  she  to  me  ? 

My  heart  whispers — very  much  ! — but  I  do  not 
listen  to  that  in  my  prouder  moods.  She  is  a  woman, 
a  beautiful  woman  indeed,  whom  I  have  known  once — 
pleasantly  known  :  she  is  living,  but  she  will  die,  or 
she  will  marry ; — -I  shall  hear  of  it  by  and  by,  and 
sigh  perhaps — nothing  more.  Life  is  earnest  around 
me  ;  there  is  no  time  to  delve  in  the  past,  for  bright 
things  to  shed  radiance  on  the  future. 

I  will  forget  the  sweet  girl,  who  was  with  me  upon 
the  ocean,  and  think  she  is  dead.  This  manly  soul  is 
strong,  if  we  would  but  think  so  :  it  can  make  a 
puppet  of  griefs,  and  take  down,  and  set  up  at  will, 
the  symbols  of  its  hope. 

— But  no,  I  cannot :  the  more  I  think  thus,  the 
less,  I  really  think  thus.  A  single  smile  of  that  frail 
girl,  when  I  recal  it, — mocks  all  my  proud  purposes  ; 
as  if,  without  her,  my  purposes  were  nothing. 

Pshaw  ! — I  say — it  is  idle  ! — and  I  bury  my 

thought  in  books,  and  in  long  hours  of  toil ;  but  as  the 
hours  lengthen,  and  my  head  sinks  with  fatigue,  and 
the  shadows  of  evening  play  around  me,  there  comes 
again  that  s\vcct  vision,  saying  with  tender  mockery — 


262     REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

is  it  idle  ?  And  I  am  helpless,  and  am  led  away 
hopefully  and  joyfully,  toward  the  golden  gates  which 
open  on  the  Future. 

But  this  is  only  in  those  silent  hours  when  the  man 
is  alone,  and  away  from  his  workii.g  thoughts.  At 
mid-day,  or  in  the  rush  of  the  world,  he  puts  hard 
armor  on,  that  reflects  all  the  light  of  such  joyous 
fancies.  He  is  cold  and  careless,  and  ready  for 
suffering,  and  for  fight. 

One  day  I  am  travelling :  I  am  absorbed  in  some 
present  cares — thinking  out  some  plan  which  is  to 
make  easier,  or  more  successful,  the  voyage  of  life. 
I  glance  upon  the  passing  scenery,  and  upon  new 
faces,  with  that  careless  indifference  which  grows  upon 
a  man  with  years,  and  above  all,  with  travel.  There 
is  no  wife  to  enlist  your  sympathies — no  children  to 
sport  with  :  my  friends  are  few,  and  scattered ;  and 
are  working  out  fairly,  what  is  before  them  to  do. 
Lilly  is  living  here,  and  Ben  is  living  there  :  their 
letters  are  cheerful,  contented  letters ;  and  they  wish 
me  well.  Griefs  even  have  grown  light  with  wearing  ; 
and  I  am  just  in  that  careless  humor — as  if  I  said, — 
jog  on,  old  world — jog  on  !  And  the  end  will  come 
along  soon ;  and  we  shall  get — poor  devils  that  we 
are — just  what  we  deserve  ! 

But  on  a  sudden,  my  eyes  rest  on  a  figure  that  I 
think  I  know.  N?w,  the  indifference  flies  like  mist ; 


EVENING.  263 

and  my  heart  throbs :  and  the  old  visions  come  up. 
I  watch  her,  as  if  there  were  nothing  else  to  be  seen. 
The  form  is  hers ;  the  grace  is  hers  ;  the  simple  dress 
— so  neat,  so  tasteful, — that  is  hers  too.  She  half 
turns  her  head  : — it  is  the  face  that  I  saw  under  the 
velvet  cap,  in  the  Park  of  Devon  ! 

I  do  not  rush  forward :  I  sit  as  if  I  were  in  a 
trance.  I  watch  her  every  action — the  kind  atten 
tions  to  her  mother  wao  sits  beside  her, — her  naive 
exclamations,  as  we  pass  some  point  of  surpassing 
beauty.  It  seems  as  if  a  new  world  were  opening 
to  me  ;  yet  I  cannot  tell  why.  I  keep  my  place,  and 
think,  and  gaze.  I  tear  the  paper  I  hold  in  my 
hand  into  shreds.  I  play  with  my  watch  chain,  and 
twist  the  seal,  until  it  is  near  breaking.  I  take  out 
my  watch,  look  at  it,  and  put  it  back — yet  1  cannot 
tell  the  hour. 

It  is  she — I  murmur — I  know  it  is  Carry  ! 

But  when  they  rise  to  leave,  my  lethargy  is  broken  ; 
yet  it  is  with  a  trembling  hesitation — a  faltering  as  it 
were,  between  the  present  life  and  the  future,  that  I 
approach.  She  knows  me  on  the  instant,  and  greets 
me  kindly  ; — as  Bella  wrote — very  kindly.  Yet  she 
shows  a  slight  embarrassment,  a  sweet  embarrassment, 
that  I  treasure  in  my  heart,  more  closely  even  than 
the  greeting.  I  change  my  course,  an!  l-;iv  i  v.i.'i 
them  ; — now  we  talk  of  the  old  scenes,  and  two  hours 


264       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR 

seem  to  have  made  with  me  the  difference  of  half  a 
life  time. 

It  is  five  years  since  I  parted  with  her,  never 
hoping  to  meet  again.  She  was  then  a  frail  girl ;  she 
is  now  just  rounding  into  womanhood.  Her  eyes  are 
as  dark  and  deep  as  ever  :  the  lashes  that  fringe  them, 
seem  to  me  even  longer  than  they  were.  Her  colour 
is  as  rich,  her  forehead  as  fair,  her  smile  as  sweet,  as 
they  were  before  ; — only  a  little  tinge  of  sadness 
floats  upon  her  eye,  like  the  haze  upon  a  summer 
landscape.  I  grow  bold  to  look  upon  her,  and  timid 
with  looking.  We  talk  of  Bella  :^-she  speaks  in  a 
soft,  low  voice,  and  the  shade  of  sadness  on  her  face, 
gathers — as  when  a  summer  mist  obscures  the  sun. 
I  talk  in  monosyllables  :  I  can  command  no  other. 
And  there  is  a  look  of  sympathy  in  her  eye,  when  I 
speak  thus,  that  binds  my  soul  to  her,  as  no  smiles 
could  do.  What  can  draw  the  heart  into  the  fulness 
of  love,  so  quick  as  sympathy  ? 

But  this  passes  ; — we  must  part ;  she  for  her  home, 
and  I  for  that  broad  home,  that  has  been  mine  so 
long — the  world.  It  seems  broader  to  me  than  ever, 
and  colder  than  ever,  and  less  to  be  wished  for  than 
ever.  A  new  book  of  hope  is  sprung  wide  open  in 
my  life : a  hope  of  home  ! 

We  are  to  meet  at  some  time,  not  far  off,  in  the 
city  v-'herp-  I  am  living  I  look  forward  to  that  time, 


EVENING.  265 

as  at  school  I  used  to  look  for  vacation  :  it  is  a  point 
d'appui  for  hope,  for  thought,  and  for  countless 
journcyings  into  the  opening  future.  Never  did  I 
keep  the  dates  better,  never  count  the  days  more 
carefully,  whether  for  bonds  to  be  paid,  or  for  divi 
dends  to  fall  due. 

I  welcome  the  time,  and  it  passes  like  a  dream. 
I  am  near  her,  often  as  I  dare  ;  the  hours  are  very 
short  with  her,  and  very  long  away.  She  receives 
me  kindly — always  very  kindly ;  she  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  kind.  But  is  it  anything  more  ? 
This  is  a  greedy  nature  of  ours  ;  and  when  sweet 
kindness  flows  upon  us,  we  want  more.  I  know  she 
is  kind ;  and  yet  in  place  of  being  grateful,  I  am  only 
covetous  of  an  excess  of  kindness. 

She  does  not  mistake  my  feelings,  surely : — ah,  no, — 
trust  a  woman  for  that !  But  what  have  I,  or  what 
am  I,  to  ask  a  return  ?  She  is  pure,  and  gentle  as  an 
angel ;  and  I — alas — only  a  poor  soldier  in  our  world- 
fight  against  the  Devil !  Sometimes  in  moods  of 
vanity,  I  call  up  what  I  fondly  reckon  my  excellen 
cies  or  deserts — a  sorry,  pitiful  array,  that  makes  me 
shame-faced  when  I  meet  her.  And  in  an  instant,  I 
banish  them  all.  And  1  think,  that  if  I  were  called 
upon  in  some  high  court  of  justice,  to  say  why  I 
should  claim  her  indulgence,  or  her  love — I  would 
say  nothing  of  my  sturdy  effort  to  beat  down  the 
12 


5266       REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

roughnesses  of  toil — nothing  of  such  manliness  as  wears 
a  calm  front  amid  the  frowns  of  the  world, — nothing 
of  little  triumphs,  in  the  every-day  fight  of  life  ;  but 
only,  I  would  enter  the  simple  plea — this  heart  is 
hers  ! 

She  leaves  ;  and  I  have  said  nothing  of  what  was 
seething  within  me  ; — how  I  curse  my  folly  !  She  is 
gone,  and  never  perhaps  will  return.  I  recal  in  de 
spair  her  last  kind  glance.  The  world  seems  blank 
to  me.  She  does  not  know ;  perhaps  she  does  not 
care,  if  I  love  her. — Well,  I  will  bear  it, — I  say.  But 
I  cannot  bear  it.  Business  is  broken ;  books  are 
blurred ;  something  remains  undone,  that  fate  de 
clares  must  be  done.  Not  a  place  can  I  find,  but 
her  sweet  smile  gives  to  it,  either  a  tinge  of  gladness, 
or  a  black  shade  of  desolation. 

I  sit  down  at  my  table  with  pleasant  books  ;  the 
fire  is  burning  cheerfully  ;  my  dog  looks  up  earnestly 
when  I  speak  to  him  ;  but  it  will  never  do !  Her 
image  sweeps  away  all  these  comforts  in  a  flood.  I 
fling  down  my  book  ;  I  turn  my  back  upon  my  dog  ; 
the  fire  hisses  and  sparkles  in  mockery  of  me. 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashes  on  my  brain  ; — I  will 
write  to  her — I  say.  And  a  smile  floats  over  my 
face, — a  smile  of  hope,  ending  in  doubt.  I  catch  up 
my  pen — my  trusty  pen  ;  and  the  clean  sheet  lies  be 
fore  me.  The  paper  could  not  be  better,  nor  the 


EVENING.  267 

pen.  I  have  writ1  en  hundreds  of  letters  ;  it  is  easy 
to  write  letters.  But  now,  it  is  not  easy. 

I  begin,  and  cross  it  out.  T  begin  again,  and  get 
on  a  little  farther  ; — then  cross  it  out.  I  try  again, 
but  can  write  nothing.  I  fling  down  my  pen  in  de 
spair,  and  burn  the  sheet,  and  go  to  my  library  for 
some  old  sour  treatise  of  Shaftesbury,  or  Lyttleton ; 
and  say — talking  to  myself  all  the  while ; — let  her 
go  ! — She  is  beautiful,  but  I  am  strong  ;  the  world  is 
short ;  we — I  and  my  dog,  and  my  books,  and  my 
pen,  will  battle  it  through  bravely,  and  leave  enough 
for  a  tomb-stone. 

But  even  as  I  say  it,  the  tears  start ; — it  is  all  false 
saying!  And  I  throw  Shaftesbury  across  the  room, 
and  take  up  my  pen  again.  It  glides  on  and  on,  as 
my  hope  glows,  and  I  tell  her  of  our  first  meeting, 
and  of  our  hours  in  the  ocean  twilight,  and  of  our  un 
steady  stepping  on  the  heaving  deck,  and  of  that 
parting  in  the  noise  of  London,  and  of  my  joy  at 
seeing  her  in  the  pleasant  country,  and  of  my  grief  af 
terward.  And  then  I  mention  Bella,— her  friend  and 
mine — and  the  tears  flow  ;  and  then  I  speak  of  our 
last  meeting,  and  of  my  doubts,  and  of  this  very  eve 
ning, — and  how  I  could  not  write,  and  abandoned  it, — 
and  then  felt  something  within  me  that  made  me  write, 
and  tell  her all ! — •— u  That  my  heart  was  not 


268       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

my  own,  but  was  wholly  hers  ; — and  that  if  she  would 
be  mine, 1  would  cherish  her,  and  love  her  always !" 

Then,  I  feel  a  kind  of  happiness, — a  strange,  tu 
multuous  happiness,  into  which  doubt  is  creeping  from 
time  to  time,  bringing  with  it  a  cold  shudder.  I  seal 
the  letter,  and  carry  it — a  great  weight — for  the  mail. 
It  seems  as  if  there  could  be  no  other  letter  that  day  ; 
and  as  if  all  the  coaches  and  horses,  and  cars,  and 
boats  were  specially  detailed  to  bear  that  single  sheet. 
It  is  a  great  letter  for  me  ;  my  destiny  lies  in  it. 

I  do  not  sleep  well  that  night ; — it  is  a  tossing 
sleep  ;  one  time  joy — sweet  and  holy  joy  comes  to  my 
dreams,  and  an  angel  is  by  me  ; — another  time,  the 
angel  fades, — the  brightness  fades,  and  I  wake,  strug 
gling  with  fear.  For  many  nights  it  is  so,  until  the 
day  comes,  on  which  I  am  looking  for  a  reply. 

The  postman  has  little  suspicion  that  the  letter 
which  he  gives  me — although  it  contains  no  promis 
sory  notes,  nor  moneys,  nor  deeds,  nor  articles  of 
trade — is  yet  to  have  a  greater  influence  upon  my  life 
and  upon  my  future,  than  all  the  letters  he  has  ever 
brought  to  me  before.  But  I  do  not  show  him  this  ; 
nor  do  I  let  him  see  the  clutch  with  which  I  grasp 
it.  I  bear  it,  as  if  it  were  a  great  and  fearful  burden, 
to  my  room.  I  lock  the  door,  and  having  broken  the 
seal  with  a  quivering  hand, — read  :  — 


EVENING.  269 


THE    LETTER. 

"PAUL — for  I  think  I  may  call  you  so  now — I 
know  not  how  to  answer  you.  Your  letter  gave  me 
great  joy  ;  but  it  gave  me  pain  too.  I  cannot — will 
not  doubt  what  you  say  :  I  believe  that  you  love  me 
better  than  I  deserve  to  be  loved  ;  and  I  know  that  I 
am  not  worthy  of  all  your  kind  praises.  But  it  is  not 
this  that  pains  me  ;  for  I  know  that  you  have  a  gen 
erous  heart,  and  would  forgive,  as  you  always  have  for 
given,  any  weakness  of  mine.  I  am  proud  too,  very 
proud,  to  have  won  your  love  ;  but  it  pains  me — more 
perhaps  than  you  will  believe — to  think  that  I  cannot 
write  back  to  you,  as  I  would  wish  to  write ; — alas, 
never !" 

Here  I  dash  the  letter  upon  the  floor,  and  with  my 
hand  upon  my  forehead,  sit  gazing  upon  the  glowing 
coals,  and  breathing  quick  and  loud. — The  dream 
then  is  broken  ! 

Presently  I  read  again  : 

"  You  know  that  my  father  died,  before  we 

had  ever  met.     He  had  an  old  friend,  who  had  come 
from  England  ,  aud   who  in   early  lifu   had   done  la... 


270       II  EYERIES     OF     A      BACHELOR. 

some  great  service,  which  made  him  seem  like  a 
brother.  This  old  gentleman  was  my  god-fatlier,  and 
called  me  daughter.  When  my  father  died,  he  drew 
me  to  his  side,  and  said, — *  Carry,  I  shall  leave  you, 
but  my  old  friend  will  be  your  father  ;'  and  he  put  my 
hand  in  his,  and  said — '  I  give  you  my  daughter.' 

"  This  old  gentleman  had  a  son,  older  than  myself; 
but  we  were  much  together,  and  grew  up  as  brother 
and  sister.  I  was  proud  of  him  ;  for  he  was  tall  and 
strong,  and  every  one  called  him  handsome.  He  was 
as  kind  too,  as  a  brother  could  be ;  and  his  father  was 
like  my  own  father.  Every  one  said,  and  believed, 
that  we  would  one  day  be  married  ;  and  my  mother, 
and  my  new  father  spoke  of  it  openly.  So  did  Lau 
rence — for  that  is  my  friend's  name. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  any  more,  Paul  j  for 
when  I  was  still  a  girl,  we  had  promised,  that  we 
would  one  day  be  man  and  wife.  Laurence  has  been 
much  in  England  ;  and  T  believe  he  is  there  now. 
The  old  gentleman  treats  me  still  as  a  daughter,  and 
talks  of  the  time,  when  I  shall  come  and  live  with 
him.  The  letters  of  Laurence  are  very  kind ;  and 
though  he  does  not  talk  so  much  of  our  marriage  as 
he  did,  it  is  only  I  think,  because  he  regards  it  as  so 
certain. 

"  I  have  wished  to  tell  you  all  this  before  ;  but  1 


EVENING.  271 

have  feared  to  tell  you  ;  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  too 
selfish  to  tell  you.  And  now  what  can  I  say  ?  Lau 
rence  seems  most  to  me  like  a  brother  ; — and  you, 

Paul but  I  must  not  go  on.  For  if  I  marry 

.Laurense,  as  fate  seems  to  have  decided,  I  will  try 
and  love  him,  better  than  all  the  world. 

"  But  will  you  not  be  a  brother,  and  love  me,  as 
you  once  loved  Bella  5 — you  Fay  my  eyes  are  like 
hers,  and  that  my  forehead  is  like  hers  ; — will  you  nofc 
believe  that  my  heart  is  like  hers  too  ? 

"  Paul,  if  you  shed  tears  over  this  letter — I  have 
shed  them  as  well  as  you.  I  can  write  no  more  now. 

"  Adieu." 

I  sit  long  looking  upon  the  blaze ;  and  when  f 
rouse  myself,  it  is  to  say  wicked  things  against  destiny. 
Again,  all  the  future  seems  very  blank.  I  cannot 
love  Carry,  as  I  loved  Bella  ;  she  cannot  be  a  sister 
to  me ;  she  must  be  more,  or  nothing  !  Again,  I 
seem  to  float  singly  on  the  tide  of  life,  and  sec  all 
around  me  in  cheerful  groups.  Everywhere  the  sun 
shines,  except  upon  my  own  cold  forehead.  There 
seems  no  mercy  in  Heaven,  and  no  goodness  for  mo 
upon  Earth. 

I  write  after  some  days,  an  answer  to  the  letter. 
But  it  is  a  bitter  answer,  in  which  I  forget  myself,  in 


272       II  E  V  E  R  I  E  S     OF     A     B  A  C  H  E  L  T    R  . 

the    whirl  of  my  misfortunes — to  the   utterance   of 
reproaches. 

Her  reply,  which  comes  speedily,  is  sweet,  and 
gentle.  She  is  hurt  by  my  reproaches,  deeply  hurt. 
But  with  a  touching  kindness,  of  which  I  am  not 
worthy,  she  credits  all  my  petulance  to  my  wounded 
feeling ;  she  soothes  me ;  but  in  soothing,  only 
wounds  the  more.  I  try  to  believe  her,  when  she 
speaks  of  her  unworthiness  ; — but  I  cannot. 

Business,  and  the  pursuits  of  ambition  or  of  in 
terest,  pass  on  like  dull,  grating  machinery.  Tasks 
are  met,  and  performed  with  strength  indeed,  but 
with  no  cheer.  Courage  is  high,  as  I  meet  the  shocks, 
and  trials  of  the  world  ;  but  it  is  a  brute,  careless 
courage,  that  glories  in  opposition.  I  laugh  at  any 
dangers,  or  any  insidious  pitfalls  ; — what  are  they  to 
me  ?  What  do  I  possess,  which  it  will  be  hard  to 
lose  ?  My  dog  keeps  by  me  ;  my  toils  arc  present ; 
my  food  is  ready  ;  my  limbs  are  strong ; — —what 
need  for  more  ? 

The  months  slip  by  ;  and  the  cloud  that  floated 
over  my  evening  sun,  passes. 

Laurence  wandering  abroad,  and  writing  to  Caro 
line,  as  to  a  sister, — writes  more  than  his  father  could 
have  wished.  He  has  met  new  faces,  very  sweet 
faces ;  and  one  which  shows  through  the  ink  of  his 
later  letters,  very  gorgeously.  The  old  gentleman 


EVENING.  273 

does  not  like  to  loso  thus  his  little  Carry ;  and  ho 
writes  back  rebuke.  But  Laurence,  with  the  letters 
of  Caroline  before  him  for  data,  throws  himself  upon 
his  sister's  kindness,  and  charity.  It  astonishes  not 
a  little  the  old  gentleman,  to  find  his  daughter  plead 
ing  in  such  strange  way,  for  the  son.  "  And  what 
will  you  do  then,  ray  Carry  ?" — the  old  man  says. 

"  Wear  weeds,  if  you  wish,  sir  ;  and  love  you 

and  Laurence  more  than  ever  !" 

And  he  takes  her  to  his  bosom ,  and  says — "  Carry 
— Carry,  you  are  too  good  for  that  wild  fellow  Lau 
rence  !" 

Now,  the  letters  are  different !  Now  they  are  full 
of  hope — dawning  all  over  the  future  sky.  Business, 
and  care,  and  toil,  glide,  as  if  a  spirit  animated  them 
all ;  it  is  no  longer  cold  machine  work,  but  intelligent, 
and  hopeful  activity.  The  sky  hangs  upon  you 
lovingly,  and  the  birds  make  music,  that  startles  you 
with  its  fineness.  Men  wear  cheerful  faces;  the 
storms  have  a  kind  pity,  gleaming  through  all  their 
wrath. 

The  days  approach,  when  you  can  call  her  jours. 
For  she  has  said  it,  and  her  mother  has  said  it ;  and 
the  kind  old  gentleman,  who  says  he  will  still  be  her 
father,  has  said  it  too ;  and  they  have  all  welcomed 
you — won  by  her  story — with  a  cordiality,  that  has 
made  your  cup  full,  to  running  over.  Only  one 


274          11  EYERIES    OF     A      13  .\JHELOR. 

thouglit  comes  up  to  obscure  your  joy; — is  it  real? 
or  if  real,  are  you  worthy  to  enjoy  ?  Will  you  cher 
ish  and  love  always,  as  you  have  promised,  that  angel 
who  accepts  your  word,  and  rests  her  happiness  on 
your  faith  ?  Are  there  not  harsh  qualities  in  your 
nature,  which  you  fear  may  sometime  make  her  re 
gret  that  she  gave  herself  to  your  love  and  charity  ? 
And  those  friends  who  watch  over  her,  as  the  apple 
of  their  eye,  can  you  always  meet  their  tenderness  and 
approval,  for  your  guardianship  of  their  treasure  ?  Is 
it  not  a  treasure  that  makes  you  fearful,  as  well  as 
joyful  ? 

But  you  forget  this  in  her  smile  :  her  kindness,  her 
goodness,  her  modesty,  will  not  let  you  remember  it. 
She  forbids  such  thoughts  ;  and  you  yield  such  obe 
dience,  as  you  never  yielded  even  to  the  commands 
of  a  mother.  And  if  your  business,  and  your  labor  slip 
by,  partially  neglected — what  matters  it  ?  What  is 
interest,  or  what  is  reputation,  compared  with  that 
fullness  of  your  heart,  which  is  now  ripe  with  joy  ? 

The  day  for  your  marriage  comes;  and  you  live  as 
if  you  were  in  a  dream.  You  think  well,  and  hope 
well  for  all  the  world.  A  flood  of  charity  seems  to 
radiate  from  all  around  you.  And  as  you  sit  beside 
her  in  the  twilight,  on  the  evening  before  the  day, 
when  you  will  call  her  yours,  and  talk  of  the  coining 
hopes,  and  of  the  soft  shadows  of  the  past ;  and  whis- 


EVENING,  275 

per  of  Bella's  love,  and  of  that  sweet  sister's  death,  and 
of  Laurence,  a  new  brother,  coming  home  joyful  with 
his  bride, — and  lay  your  cheek  to  hers — life  seems  as 
if  it  were  all  day,  and  as  if  there  could  be  no  night ! 

The  marriage  passes ;   and   she  is  yours, — yours 
'brevcr. 


NEW    TRAVEL. 

AGAIN  I  am  upon  the  sea ;  but  not  alone.  She 
whom  I  first  met  upon  the  wastes  of  ocean,  is  there 
beside  me.  Again  I  steady  her  tottering  step  upon 
the  deck ;  once  it  was  a  drifting,  careless  pleasure  ; 
now  the  pleasure  is  holy. 

Once  the  fear  I  felt,  as  the  storms  gathered,  and 
night  came,  and  the  ship  tossed  madly,  and  great 
waves  gathering  swift,  and  high,  came  down  like  slip 
ping  mountains,  and  spent  their  force  upon  the  quiv 
ering  vessel,  was  a  selfish  fear.  But  it  is  so  no 
longer.  Indeed  I  hardly  know  fear  ;  for  how  can  the 
tempests  harm  her  ?  Is  she  not  too  good  to  suffer 
any  of  the  wrath  of  heaven  ? 

And  in  nights  of  calm, — hoiy  nights,  we  lean  over 
the  ship's  side,  looking  down,  as  once  before,  into  the 
dark  depths,  and  murmur  again  snatches  of  ocean 
song,  and  talk  of  those  we  love  ;  and  we  peer  among  the 


276      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

stars,  which  socm  neighborly,  and  as  if  they  were  the 
homes  of  friends.  And  as  the  great  ocean-swells 
come  rocking  under  us,  and  carry  us  up  and  down 
along  the  valleys  and  the  hills  of  water,  they  seem 
like  deep  pulsations  of  the  great  heart  of  nature, 
heaving  us  forward  toward  the  goal  of  life,  and  to  the 
gates  of  heaven  ! 

We  watch  the  ships  as  they  come  upon  the  hori 
zon,  and  sweep  toward  us,  like  false  friends,  with  the 
sun  glittering  on  their  sails;  and  then  shift  their 
course,  and  bear  away — with  their  bright  sails,  turned 
to  spots  of  shadow.  We  watch  the  long  winged 
birds  skimming  the  waves  hour  after  hour, — like 
pleasant  thoughts — now  dashing  before  our  bows,  and 
then  sweeping  behind,  until  they  are  lost  in  the  hollows 
of  the  water. 

Again  life  lies  open,  as  it  did  once  before  ;  but  the 
regrets,  disappointments,  and  fruitless  resolves  do 
not  come  to  trouble  me  now.  It  is  the  future, 
which  has  become  as  level  as  the  sea  ;  and  she  is  be 
side  me, — the  sharer  in  that  future — to  look  out  with 
me,  upon  the  joyous  sparkle  of  water,  and  to  count 
with  me,  the  dazzling  ripples,  that  lie  between  us  and 
the  shore.  A  thousand  pleasant  plans  come  up,  and 
are  abandoned,  like  the  waves  we  leave  behind  us ; 
a  thousand  other  joyous  plans,  dawn  upon  our  fancy, 
like  the  waves  that  glitter  before  us.  We  talk  of 


EVENING.  277 

Laurence  and  his  bride,  whom  we  are  to  meet ;  wo 
talk  of  her  mother,  who  is  even  now  watching  the 
winds  that  waft  her  child  over  the  ocean ;  we  talk  of 
the  kindly  old  man,  her  god-father,  who  gave  her  a 
father's  blessing  ;  we  talk  low,  and  in  the  twilight 
hours,  of  Isabel — who  sleeps. 

At  length,  as  the  sun  goes  down  upon  a  fair  night, 
over  the  western  waters  which  we  have  passed,  we 
see  before  us,  the  low  blue  line  of  the  shores  of  Corn 
wall  and  Devon.  In  the  night,  shadowy  ships  glide 
past  us  with  gleaming  lanterns  ;  and  in  the  morning, 
we  see  the  yellow  cliifs  of  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  and 
standing  out  from  the  land,  is  the  dingy  sail  of  our 
pilot.  London  with  its  fog,  roar,  and  crowds,  has 
not  the  same  charms  that  it  once  had  ;  that  roar  and 
crowd  is  good  to  make  a  man  forget  his  griefs — forget 
himself,  and  stupify  him  with  amazement.  We  arc 
in  no  need  of  such  forge tfulness. 

We  roll  along  the  banks  of  the  sylvan  river  that 
glides  by  Hampton  Court ;  and  we  toil  up  Richmond 
Hill,  to  look  together  upon  that  scene  of  water,  and 
meadow, — of  leafy  copses,  and  glistening  villas,  of 
brown  cottages,  and  clustered  hamlets, — of  solitary 
oaks,  and  loitering  herds — all  spread  like  a  veil  of 
beauty,  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Thames.  But  we 
cannot  linger  here,  nor  even  under  the  glorious  old 
boles  of  Windsor  Forest ;  but  we  hurry  on  to  that 


2"8     REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

sweet  county  of  Devon,  made  green  with  its  white 
skeins  of  water. 

Again  we  loiter  under  the  oaks,  where  we  have 
loitered  before ;  and  the  sleek  deer  gaze  on  us  with 
their  liquid  eyes,  as  they  gazed  before.  The  squirrels 
sport  among  the  boughs  as  fearless  as  ever  ;  and  some 
wandering  puss  pricks  her  long  ears  at  our  steps, 
and  bounds  off  along  the  hedge  rows  to  her  burrow. 
Again  I  sec  Carry  in  her  velvet  riding-cap,  with  the 
white  plume  ;  and  I  meet  her  as  I  met  her  before, 
under  the  princely  trees  that  skirt  the  northern  ave 
nue.  I  recal  the  evening  when  I  sauntered  out  at  the 
park  gates,  and  gained  a  blessing  from  the  porter's 

wife,  and  dreamed  that  strange  dream  ; now,  the 

dream  seems  more  real,  than  my  life. — "  God  bless 
you  !" — said  the  woman  again. 

— "  Aye,  old  lady,  God  has  blessed  me  !" — and  I 
fling  her  a  guinea,  not  as  a  gift,  but  as  a  debt. 

The  bland  farmer  lives  yet ;  he  scarce  knows  me, 
until  I  tell  him  of  my  bout  around  his  oat-field,  at  the 
tail  of  his  long  stilted  plough.  I  find  the  old  pew  in 
the  parish  church.  Other  holly  sprigs  arc  hung 
now ;  and  I  do  not  doze,  for  Carry  is  beside  me. 
The  curate  drawls  the  service ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to 
listen  ;  and  I  make  the  responses  with  an  emphasis, 
that  tells  more  I  fear,  for  my  joy,  than  for  my  reli 
gion  The  old  groom  at  the  mansion  in  the  Park, 


E  V    E  N  I  N  G  .  279 

lias  not  forgotten  the  hard-riding  of  other  days ;  and 
tells  long  stories  (to  which  I  love  to  listen)  of  the  old 
visit  of  mistress  Carry,  when  she  followed  the  hounds 
with  the  best  of  the  English  lasses. 

— "  Yer  honor  may  well  be  proud  ;  for  not  a  pret 
tier  face,  or  a  kinder  heart  has  been  in  Devon,  since 
mistress  Carry  left  us  !" 

But  pleasant  as  are  the  old  woods,  full  of  memories, 
and  pleasant  as  are  the  twilight  evenings  upon  the 
terrace — we  must  pass  over  to  the  mountains  of 
Switzerland.  There  we  arc  to  meet  Laurence. 

Carry  has  never  seen  the  magnificence  of  the  Juras  ; 
and  as  we  journey  over  the  hills  between  Dole,  and 
the  border  line,  looking  upon  the  rolling  heights 
shrouded  with  pine  trees,  and  down  thousands  of  feet, 
at  the  very  road  side,  upon  the  cottage  roofs,  and 
emerald  valleys,  where  the  dun  herds  are  feeding 
quietly,  she  is  lost  in  admiration.  At  length  we 
come  to  that  point  above  the  little  town  of  Gex,  from 
which  you  see  spread  out  before  you,  the  meadows 
that  skirt  Geneva,  the  placid  surface  of  Lake  Lcman 
and  the  rough,  shaggy  mountains  of  Savoy ; — and  far 
behind  them,  breaking  the  horizon  with  snowy  cap, 
and  with  dark  pinnacles — Mont  Blanc,  and  the 
Needles  of  Chamouni. 

I  point  out  to  her  in  the  valley  below,  the  little 
town  of  Ferney,  where  stands  the  deserted  chateau  of 


280       REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Voltaire ;  and  beyond,  upon  the  shores  of  the  lake, 
the  old  home  of  de  Stael ;  and  across,  with  its  white 
walls  reflected  upon  the  bosom  of  the  water,  the  house 
where  Byron  wrote  the  prisoner  of  Chillon.  Among 
the  grouping  roofs  of  Geneva,  we  trace  the  dark 
cathedral,  and  the  tall  hotels  shining  on  the  edge  of 
the  lake.  And  I  toll  of  the  time,  when  I  tramped 
down  through  yonder  valley,  with  my  future  all 
visionary,  and  broken,  and  drank  the  splendor  of  the 
scene,  only  as  a  quick  relief  to  the  monotony  of  my 
solitary  life. 

"  And  now,  Carry,  with  your  hand  locked  in 

mine,  and  your  heart  mine — yonder  lake  sleeping  in 
the  sun,  and  the  snowy  mountains  with  their  rosy  hue, 
seem  like  the  smile  of  nature,  bidding  us  be  glad  !" 

Laurence  is  at  Geneva ;  he  welcomes  Carry,  as  he 
would  welcome  a  sister.  He  is  a  noble  fellow,  and 
tells  me  much  of  his  sweet  Italian  wife  ;  and  presents 

me  to  the  smiling,  blushing Enrica !  She  has 

learned  English  now  ;  she  has  found,  she  says,  a 
better  teacher,  than  ever  I  was.  Yet  she  welcomes 
me  warmly,  as  a  sister  might ;  and  we  talk  of  those 
old  evenings  by  the  blazing  five,  and  of  the  one-eyed 
Maestro,  as  children  long  separated,  might  talk  of 
their  school  tasks,  and  of  their  teachers.  She  cannot 
tell  me  enough  of  her  praises  of  Laurence,  and  of  his 


EVENING. 

noble  heart. — "  You  were  good," — she  says, — "  but 
Laurence  is  better." 

Carry  admires  her  soft  brown  hair,  and  her  deep 
liquid  eye,  and  wonders  how  I  could  ever  have  left 
Koine  ? 

Do  you  indeed  wonder — Carry  ? 

And  together  we  go  down  into  Savoy,  to  that 
marvellous  valley,  which  lies  under  the  shoulder  of 
Mont  Blanc  ;  and  we  wandered  over  the  Mer  de  Glace, 
and  picked  Alpine  roses  from  the  edge  of  the  frown 
ing  glacier.  We  toil  at  night-fall  up  to  the  monas 
tery  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  where  the  new  forming 
ice  crackles  in  the  narrow  foot-way,  and  the  cold 
moon  glistens  over  wastes  of  snow,  and  upon  the 
windows  of  the  dark  Hospice.  Again,  we  are  among 
the  granite  heights,  whose  ledges  are  filled  with  ice, 
upon  the  Grimsel.  The  pond  is  dark  and  cold  ;  the 
paths  are  slippery  ; — the  great  glacier  of  the  Aar 
sends  down  icy  breezes,  and  the  echoes  ring  from  rock 
to  rock,  as  if  the  ice- God  answered.  And  yet  we 
neither  suffer,  nor  fear. 

In  the  sweet  valley  of  Mcyringen,  we  part  from 
Laurence  :  he  goes  northward,  by  Grindelwald,  and 
Tlmn, —  thence  to  journey  westward,  and  to  make  for 
the  Iloman  girl,  a  home  beyond  the  ocean.  Enrica 
bids  me  go  on  to  Rome :  she  knows  that  Carry  will 
love  its  soft  warm  air,  its  ruins,  Us  pictures  and 


282      REVERIES    OFA    BACHELOR. 

temples,  better  than  these  cold  valleys  of  Switzerland. 
And  she  gives  me  kind  messages  for  her  mother,  and 
for  Cesare  ;  and  should  we  be  in  Rome  at  the  Easter 
season,  she  bids  us  remember  her,  when  we  listen  to 
the  Miserere,  and  when  we  see  the  great  Chiesa  on 

fire,  and  when  we  saunter  upon  the  Pincian  hill ; 

and  remember,  that  it  is  her  home. 

We  follow  them  with  our  eyes,  as  they  go  up  the 
steep  height  over  which  falls  the  white  foam  of  the 
clattering  Reichenbach  ;  and  they  wave  their  hands 
toward  us,  and  disappear  upon  the  little  plateau  which 
stretches  toward  the  crystal  Rosenlaui,  and  the  tall, 
still,  Engel-Horner. 

May  the  mountain  angels  guard  them  ! 

As  we  journey  on  toward  th&t.  wonderful  pass  of 
Splugen,  I  recal  by  the  way,  upon  the  heights,  and  in 
the  valleys,  the  spots  where  1  lingered  years  before  ; — 
here,  I  plucked  a  flower,  there,  I  drank  from  that 
cold,  yellow  glacier  water ;  and  here,  upon  some  rock 
overlooking  a  stretch  of  broken  mountains,  hoary  with 
their  eternal  frosts,  I  sat  musing  upon  that  very  Future, 
which  is  with  me  now.  But  never,  even  when  the 
ice-genii  were  most  prodigal  of  their  fancies  to  the 
wanderer,  did  I  look  for  more  joy,  or  a  better  angel. 

Afterward,  when  all  our  trembling  upon  the  Alpine 
paths  has  gone  by,  we  are  rolling  along  under  the 
chestnuts  and  lindens  that  skirt  the  banks  of  Como. 


EVENING.  283 

We  recal  that  sweet  story  of  Manzoni,  arid  I  point 
out,  as  well  as  I  may,  the  loitering  place  of  the  bravi, 
and  the  track  of  poor  Don  Abbondio.  We  follow  in 
the  path  of  the  discomfited  Renzi,  to  where  the 
dainty  spire,  and  pinnacles  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan, 
glisten  against  the  violet  sky. 

Carry  longs  to  see  Venice  ;  its  water-streets,  and 
palaces  have  long  floated  in  her  visions.  In  the 
bustling  activity  of  our  own  country,  and  in  the  quiet 
fields  of  England,  that  strange,  half-deserted  capital, 
lying  in  the  Adriatic,  has  taken  the  strongest  hold 
upon  her  fancy. 

So  we  leave  Padua,  and  Verona  behind  us,  and  find 
ourselves  upon  a  soft  spring  noon,  upon  the  end  of 
the  iron  road  which  stretches  across  the  lagoon, 
toward  Venice.  With  the  hissing  of  steam  in  the 
ear,  it  is  hard  to  think  of  the  wonderful  city,  we  are 
approaching.  But  as  we  escape  from  the  carriage, 
and  set  our  feet  down  into  one  of  those  strange, 
hearse-like,  ancient  boats,  with  its  sharp  iron  prow, 
and  listen  to  the  melodious  rolling  tongue  of  the 
Venetian  gondolier  : — as  we  see  rising  over  the  watery 
plain  before  us,  all  glittering  in  the  sun,  tall,  square 
towers  with  pyramidal  tops,  and  clustered  domes,  and 
minarets ;  and  sparkling  roofs  lifting  from  marble 
walls — all  so  like  the  old  paintings  ; — and  as  we  glide 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  floating  wonder,  under  the 


284         REVERIES     OF     A      BACHELOR. 

silent  working  oar,  of  our  now  silent  gondolier  ; — 
as  we  ride  up  swiftly  under  the  deep,  broad  shadows 
of  palaces,  and  see  plainly  the  play  of  the  sea-water 
in  the  crevices  of  the  masonry, — and  turn  into 
narrow  rivers  shaded  darkly  by  overhanging  walls, 
hearing  no  sound,  but  of  voices,  or  the  swaying  of  the 
water  against  the  houses, — we  feel  the  presence  of  the 
place.  And  the  mystic  fingers  of  the  Past,  grappling 
our  spirits,  lead  them  away — willing  and  rejoicing 
captives,  through  the  long  vista  of  the  ages,  that  are 
gone. 

Carry  is  in  a  trance  ; — rapt  by  the  witchery  of  the 
scene,  into  dream.  This  is  her  Venice  ;  nor  have  all 
the  visions  that  played  upon  her  fancy,  been  equal  to 
the  enchanting  presence  of  this  hour  of  approach. 

Afterward,  it  becomes  a  living  thing, — stealing 
upon  the  affections,  and  upon  the  imagination  by  a 
thousand  coy  advances.  We  wander  under  the  warm 
Italian  sunlight  to  the  steps  from  which  rolled  the 
white  head  of  poor  Marino  Faliero.  The  gentle 
Carry  can  now  thrust  her  ungloved  hand,  into  the 
terrible  Lion's  mouth.  We  enter  the  salon  of  the 
tearful  Ten  ;  and  peep  through  the  half  opened  door, 
into  the  cabinet  of  the  more  fearful  Three.  We  go 
through  the  deep  dungeons  of  Carmagnola  -  and  of 
Carrara  ;  and  we  instruct  the  willing  gondolier  to 
push  his  dark  boat  under  tin  13ridgc  of  Sighs ;  and 


EVENING.  285 

with  Rogers'  poem  in  our  hand,  glide  up  to  the  prison 
door,  and  read  of — 

that  fearful  closet  at  the  foot 


Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  came, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life  ! 


I  sail,  listening  to  nothing  but  the  dip  of  the  gon 
dolier's  oar,  or  to  her  gentle  words,  fast  under  the 
palace  door,  which  closed  that  fearful  morning,  on 
the  guilt  and  shame  of  Bianca  Capello.  Or,  with 
souls  lit  up  by  the  scene,  into  a  buoyancy  that  can 
scarce  distinguish  between  what  is  real,  and  what  is 
merely  written, — we  chase  the  anxious  step  of  the 
forsaken  Corinna  ;  or  seek  among  the  veteran  palaces 
the  casement  of  the  old  Brabantio, — the  chamber  of 
Desdemona, — the  house  of  Jessica,  and  trace  among 
the  strange  Jew  money-changers,  who  yet  haunt  the 
Kialto,  the  likeness  of  the  bearded  Shylock.  We 
wander  into  stately  churches,  brushing  over  grass,  or 
tell-tale  flowers  that  grow  in  the  court,  and  find  them 
damp  and  cheerless  ;  the  incense  rises  murkily,  and 
rests  in  a  thick  cloud  over  the  altars,  and  over  the 
paintings  ;  the  music ,  if  so  be  that  the  organ  notes 
are  swelling  under  the  roof,  is  mournfully  plaintive. 


286       REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Of  an  afternoon  we  sail  over  to  the  Lido,  to  glad 
den  our  eyes  with  a  sight  of  land  and  green  things, 
and  we  pass  none  upon  the  way,  save  silent  oarsmen, 
with  barges  piled  high  with  the  produce  of  their  gar 
dens, — pushing  their  way  down  toward  the  floating 
city.  And  upon  the  narrow  island,  we  find  Jewish 
graves,  half  covered  by  drifted  sand ;  and  from 
among  them,  watch  the  sunset  glimmering  over  a 
desolate  level  of  water.  As  we  glide  back,  lights 
lift  over  the  Lagoon,  and  double  along  the  Guideca, 
and  the  Grand  Canal.  The  little  neighbor  isles  will 
have  their  company  of  lights  dancing  in  the  water  ; 
and  from  among  them,  will  rise  up  against  the  mellow 
evening  sky  of  Italy,  gaunt,  unlighted  houses. 

After  the  nightfall,  which  brings  no  harmful  dew 
with  it,  I  stroll,  with  her  hand  within  my  arm, — as 
once  upon  the  sea,  and  in  the  English  Park,  and  in 
the  home-land — over  that  great  stpare  which  lies  be 
fore  the  palace  of  St.  Marks.  The  white  moon  is 
riding  in  the  middle  heaven,  like  a  globe  of  silver  ; 
the  gondoliers  stride  over  the  echoing  .stones  ;  and 
their  long  black  shadows,  stretching  over  the  pave 
ment,  or  shaking  upon  the  moving  water,  S3em  like 
great  funereal  plumes,  waving  over  the  bier  of  Venice. 

Carrying  thence  whole  treasures  of  thought  and 
fancy,  to  feed  upon  in  the  after  years,  we  wander  to 
Home. 


EVENING.  287 

I  find  the  old  one-eyed  maestro^  amot  am  met  with 
cordial  welcome  by  the  mother  of  the  pretty  Enrica. 
The  Count  has  gone  to  the  marches  of  Ancona. 
Lame  Pietro  still  shuffles  around  the  boards  at  the 
Lepre,  and  the  flower  sellers  at  the  corner,  bind  me 
a  more  brilliant  bouquet  than  ever,  for  a  new  beauty 
at  Rome.  As  we  ramble  under  the  broken  arches  of 
the  great  aqueduct  stretching  toward  Frascati,  I  tell 
Carry,  the  story  of  my  trip  in  the  Appcnines  ;  and 
we  search  for  the  pretty  Carlotta.  But  she  is  mar 
ried,  they  tell  us,  to  a  Neapolitan  guardsman.  In 
the  spring  twilight,  we  wander  upon  those  heights 
which  lie  between  Frascati  and  Albano ;  and  looking 
westward,  see  that  glorious  view  of  the  Campagna, 
which  can  never  be  forgotten.  But  beyond  the  Cam- 
pagna,  and  beyond  the  huge  hulk  of  St.  Peter's,  heav 
ing  into  the  sky  from  the  middle  waste,  we  see,  or 
fancy  we  see,  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  which  stretches  out 
and  on  to  the  land  we  love,  better  than  Rome.  And 
in  fancy,  we  build  up  that  home,  which  shall  belong 
to  us,  on  the  return  ; — a  home,  that  has  slumbered 
long  in  the  future ;  and  which,  now  that  the  future 
has  comCj  lies  fairly  before  me. 


288      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 


HOME. 

YEARS  seem  to  have  passed.  They  have  mellowed 
life  into  ripeness.  The  start,  and  change,  and  hot 
ambition  of  youth,  seem  to  have  gone  by.  A  calm, 
and  joyful  quietude  has  succeeded.  That  future 
which  still  lies  before  me,  seems  like  a  roseate  twi 
light,  sinking  into  a  peaceful,  and  silent  night. 

My  home  is  a  cottage,  near  that  where  Isabel  once 
lived.  The  same  valley  is  around  me  ;  the  same 
brook  rustles,  and  loiters  under  the  gnarled  roots  of 
the  overhanging  trees.  The  cottage  is  no  mock  cot 
tage,  but  a  substantial,  wide  spreading  cottage,  with 
clustering  gables,  and  ample  shade ; — such  a  cottage, 
as  they  build  upon  the  slopes  of  Devon.  Vines  clam 
ber  over  it,  and  the  stones  show  mossy  through  the 
interlacing  climbers.  There  are  low  porches,  with 
cozy  arm  chairs  ;  and  generous  oriels,  fragrant  with 
mignionette,  and  the  blue  blossoming  violets. 

The  chimney  stacks  rise  high,  and  show  clear 
against  the  heavy  pine  trees,  that  ward  off  the  blasts 
of  winter.  The  dovecote,  is  a  habited  dovecote,  and 
the  purple-necked  pigeons  swoop  around  the  roofs, 
in  great  companies.  The  hawthorn  is  budding  into 
its  June  fragrance  along  all  the  linus  of  fence  ;  and 


EVENING.  289 

the  paths  arc  trim,  and  clean.  The  shrubs, — 
our  neglected  azalias  and  rhododendrons  chiefest 
among  them, — stand  in  picturesque  groups  upon  the 
close  shaven  lawu. 

The  gateway  in  the  thicket  below,  is  between  two 
mossy  old  posts  of  stone;  and  there  is  a  tall  hem 
lock  flanked  by  a  sturdy  pine,  for  sentinel.  Within 
the  cottage,  the  library  is  wainscotted  with  native 
oak  ;  and  my  trusty  gun  hangs  upon  a  branching  pair 
of  antlers.  -  My  rod  and  nets  are  disposed  above  the 
generous  book-shelves  ;  and  a  stout  eagle,  once  a 
tenant  of  the  native  woods,  sits  perched  over  the  cen 
tral  alcove.  An  old  fashioned  mantel  is  above  the 
brown  stone  jams  of  the  country  fire-place  ;  and  along 
it  are  distributed  records  of  travel ; — little  bronze 
temples  from  Rome,  the  pietro  dwro  of  Florence,  tho 
porcelain  busts  of  Dresden,  the  rich  iron  of  Berlin, 
and  a  cup  fashioned  from  a  stag's  horn,  from  the 
Black  Forest  by  the  Rhine, 

Massive  chairs  stand  here  and  there,  in  tempting 
attitude ;  strewed  over  an  oaken  table  in  the  middle, 
are  the  uncut  papers,  and  volumes  of  the  day  •  and 
upon  a  lion's  skin  stretched  before  the  hearth,  is  lying 
another  Tray. 

But  this  is  not  all.  There  are  children  in  the  cot 
tage.  There  is  Jamie — we  think  him  handsome — 
for  he  has  the  dark  hair  of  his  mother,  and  the  samo 
13 


290      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

Mack  eye,  with  its  long,  heavy  fringe.  There  is  Carry 
— little  Garry  I  must  call  her  DOW — with  a  face  full 
of  glee,  and  rosy  with  health ;  then  there  is  a  little 
rogue  some  two  years  old,  whom  we  call  Paul — a 
very  bad  boy, — as  we  tell  him. 

The  mother  is  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  far  more 
dear  to  me  ;  for  gratitude  has  been  adding,  year  by 
year,  to  love.  There  have  been  times  when  a  harsh 
word  of  mine,  uttered  in  the  fatigues  of  business,  have 
touched  her ;  and  I  have  seen  that  soft  eye  fill  with 
tears  ;  and  I  have  upbraided  myself  for  causing  her 
one  pang.  But  such  things  she  docs  not  remember  ; 
or  remembers,  only  to  cover  with  her  gentle  forgive 
ness, 

Laurence  and  Enrica  are  living  near  us.  And  the 
old  gentleman,  who  was  Carry's  god-father,  sits  with 
me,  on  sunny  days  upon  the  porch,  and  takes  little 
Paul  upon  his  knee,  and  wonders  if  two  such  daugh 
ters  as  Enrica,  and  Carry  are  to  be  found  in  the 
world.  At  twilight,  we  ride  over  to  see  Laurence ; 
Jamie  mounts  with  the  eoaehman  ;  little  Carry  puts 
on  her  wide-rimmed  Leghorn  for  the  evening  visit  ; 
and  the  old  gentleman's  plea  for  Paul,  cannot  be  de 
nied.  The  mother  too  is  with  us  ;  and  old  Tray 
comes  whisking  along,  now  frolicking  before  the 
horses'  heads,  and  then  bounding  off  after  the  flight 
of  some  belated  bird. 


EVENING.  291 

Away  from  that  cottage  home,  I  seem  away  from 
life.  Within  it,  that  broad,  and  shadowy  future, 
which  lay  before  me  in  boyhood  and  in  youth,  is 
garnered, — like  a  fine  mist,  gathered  into  drops  of 
crystal. 

And  when  away — those  long  letters,  dating  from 
the  cottage  home,  are  what  tie  me  to  life.  That 
cherished  wife,  far  dearer  to  me  now,  than  when  she 
wrote  that  first  letter,  which  seemed  a  dark  veil  be 
tween  me  and  the  future — writes  me  now,  as  tenderly 
as  then.  She  narrates,  in  her  delicate  way,  all  the. 
incidents  of  the  home  life  ;  she  tells  me  of  their  rides, 
and  of  their  games,  and  of  the  new  planted  trees  ; — 
of  all  their  sunny  days,  and  of  their  frolics  on  the 
lawn  ;  she  tells  me  how  Jamie  is  studying,  and  of 
little  Carry's  beauty,  growing  every  day,  and  of 
rogueish  Paul — so  like  his  father  !  And  she  sends 
me  a  kiss  from  each  of  them  ;  and  bids  rne  such  adieu, 
and  such  c  God's  blessing,'  that  it  seems  as  if  an 
angel  guarded  me. 

But  this  is  not  all ;  for  Jamie  has  written  a  post 
script  : 

"  Dear  Father,"  he  says,  "  mother  wishes  me 

to  tell  you  how  I  am  studying.  What  would  you 
think,  father,  ^o  have  me  talk  in  French  to  you, 
when  ;ou  cone  back  ?  I  wish  you  would  come  back 


292       REVERIES  OF    A    BACHELOR. 

though  ;  the  hawthorns  are  coming  out,  and  the  apri 
cot  under  my  window  is  all  full  of  blossoms.  If  you 
should  bring  me  a  present,  as  you  almost  always  do, — 
I  would  like  a  fishing  rod. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  JAMIE." 

And  little  Carry  has  her  fine,  rambling  characters 
running  into  a  second  postscript. 

""Why  don't  you  come,  papa  ;  you  stay  too  long  ; 
I  have  ridden  the  pony  twice ;  once  he  most  threw 
me  off.  This  is  all  from  CARRY." 

And  Paul  has  taken  the  pen  too,  and  in  his  extra 
ordinary  eifort  to  make  a  big  P,  has  made  a  very  big 
blot.  And  Jamie  writes  under  it — "  This  is  Paul's 
work,  Pa ;  but  he  says  it's  a  love  blot,  only  he  loves 
you  ten  hundred  times  more." 

And  after  your  return,  Jamie  will  insist  that  you 
should  go  with  him  to  the  brook,  and  sit  down  with 
him  upon  a  tuft  of  the  brake,  to  fling  off  a  line  into 
the  eddies,  though  only  the  nibbling  roach  are  sport 
ing  below.  You  have  instructed  the  workmen  to 
spare  the  clumps  of  bank-willows,  that  the  wood-duck 
may  have  a  covert  in  winter,  and  that  the  Bob  o- 
Lincolns  may  have  a  qui-jt  netting  place  in  the  spring. 

Sometimes  you"  wife, — too  kind  to  deny  such  favor 


EVENING.  293 

— will  stroll  with  you  along  the  meadow  banks,  and 
you  pick  meadow  daisies  in  memory  of  the  old  time. 
Little  Carry  weaves  them  into  rude  chaplets,  to  dress 
the  forehead  of  Paul,  and  they  dance  along  the  green 
sward,  and  switch  off  the  daffodils,  and  blow  away  the 
dandelion  seeds,  to  see  if  their  wishes  arc  to  come 
true.  Jamie  holds  a  butter  cup  under  Carry's  chin, 
to  find  if  she  loves  gold ;  and  Paul,  the  rogue,  teases 
them,  by  sticking  a  thistle  into  sister's  curls. 

The  pony  has  hard  work  to  do  under  Carry's  swift 
riding — but  he  is  fed  by  her  own  hand,  with  the  cold 
breakfast  rolls.  The  nuts  are  gathered  in  time,  and 
stored  for  long  winter  evenings,  when  the  fire  is  burn 
ing  bright  and  cheerily — a  true,  hickory  blase, — 
which  sends  its  waving  gleams  over  eager,  smiling 
faces,  and  over  well-stored  book  shelves,  and  portraits 
of  dear,  lost  ones.  While  from  time  to  time,  that 
wife,  who  is  the  soul  of  the  s<jcne,  will  break  upou 
the  children's  prattle,  with  the  silver  melody  of  her 
voice,  running  softly  and  sweetly  through  the  coup 
lets  of  Crabbe's  stories,  or  the  witchery  of  the  Flod- 
den  Tale. 

Then  the  boys  will  guess  conundrums,  and  play  at  fox 
and  geese  ;  and  Tray,  cherished  in  his  age,  and  old 
Milo  petted  in  his  dotage,  lie  side  by  side,  upon  the 
lion's  skin,  before  the  blazing  hearth.  Little  Tom 
tit  the  goldfinch  sits  sleeping  on  his  perch,  or  cocks 


294      REVERIES   OF    A    BACHELOR. 

his  eye  at  a  sudden  crackling  of  the  fire,  for  a  familiar 
squint  upon  our  family  group. 

But  there  is  no  future  without  its  straggling  clouds. 
Even  now  a  shadow  is  trailing  along  the  landscape. 

It  is  a  soft  and  mild  day  of  summer.  The  leaves 
arc  at  their  fullest.  A  southern  breeze  has  been 
blowing  up  the  valley  all  the  morning,  and  the  light, 
smoky  haze  hangs  in  the  distant  mountain  gaps,  like 
a  veil  on  beauty.  Jamie  has  been  busy  with  his  les 
sons,  and  afterward  playing  with  Milo  upon  the  lawn. 
Little  Carry  has  come  in  from  a  long  ride — her  face 
blooming,  and  her  eyes  all  smiles,  and  joy.  The 
mother  has  busied  herself  with  those  flowers  she  loves 
so  well.  Little  Paul,  they  say,  has  been  playing  in 
the  meadow,  and  old  Tray  has  gone  with  him. 

But  at  dinner  time,  Paul  has  not  come  back. 

u  Paul  ought  not  to  ramble  off  so  far,"  I  say. 

The  mother  says  nothing  ;  but  there  is  a  look  of 
anxiety  upon  her  face,  that  disturbs  me.  Jamie 
wonders  where  Paul  can  be,  and  he  saves  for  him, 
whatever  he  knows  Paul  will  like — a  heaping  plate- 
full.  But  the  dinner  hour  passes,  and  Paul  does  not 
come.  Old  Tray  lies  in  the  sun-shine  by  the  porch. 

Now  the  mother  is  indeed  anxious.  And  I,  though 
I  conceal  this  from  her,  find  my  fears  strangely 
active.  Something  like  instinct  guides  me  to  the 


E  V  E  N  I  N  G  .  295 

meadow :  I  wander  down  the  brook-side  calling — • 
Paul ! — Paul  !  But  there  is  no  answer. 

All  the  afternoon  we  search,  and  the  neighbors 
search  ;  but  it  is  a  fruitless  toil.  There  is  no  joy 
that  evening :  the  meal  passes  in  silence  ;  only  little 
Carry  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asks, — if  Paul  will  soon 
come  back  ?  All  the  night  we  search  and  call : — the 
mother  even  braving  the  night  air,  and  running  here 
and  there,  until  the  morning  finds  us  sad,  and  de 
spairing. 

That  day — the  next — cleared  up  the  mystery  ;  but 
cleared  it  up  with  darkness.  Poor  little  Paul ! — he 
has  sunk  under  the  murderous  eddies  of  the  brook  ! 
His  boyish  prattle,  his  rosy  smiles,  his  artless  talk, 
are  lost  to  us  forever  ! 

I  will  not  tell  how  nor  when  we  found  him :  nor 
will  I  tell  of  our  desolate  home,  and  of  her  grief — the 
first  crushing  grief  of  her  life. 

The  cottage  is  still.  The  servants  glide  noiseless, 
as  if  they  might  startle  the  poor  little  sleeper.  The 
house  seems  cold — very  cold.  Yet  it  is  summer 
weather ;  and  the  south  breeze  plays  softly  along  the 
meadow,  and  softly  over  the  murderous  eddies  of  the 
brook. 

Then  comes  the  hush  of  burial.  The  kind  mourn 
ers  are  there : it  is  easy  for  them  to  mourn  ! 


296      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

The  good  clergyman  prays  by  the  bier  : '  Oh, 

Thou,  who  did'st  take  upon  thyself  human  woe,  and 
drank  deep  of  every  pang  in  life,  let  thy  spirit  come 
and  heal  this  grief,  and  guide  toward  that  Better 
Land,  where  justice  and  love  shall  reign,  and  hearts 
laden  with  anguish,  shall  rest  forevermore  !' 

Weeks  roll  on ;  and  a  smile  of  resignation  lights  up 
the  saddened  features  of  the  mother.  Those  dark 
mourning  robes  speak  to  the  heart  deeper,  and  more 
tenderly,  than  ever  the  bridal  costume.  She  lightens 
the  weight  of  your  grief  by  her  sweet  words  of  resig 
nation  : — "  Paul,"  she  says,  "  Grod  has  taken  our 
boy  !" 

Other  weeks  roll  on.  Joys  are  still  left — great  and 
ripe  joys.  The  cottage  smiling  in  the  autumn  sun 
shine  is  there  :  the  birds  are  in  the  forest  boughs  : 
Jamie  and  little  Carry  are  there  ;  and  she,  who  is 
more  than  them  all,  is  cheerful,  and  content. 
Heaven  has  taught  us  that  the  brightest  future  has 
its  clouds  ; — that  this  life  is  a  motley  of  lights  and 
shadows.  And  as  we  look  upon  the  world  around  us, 
and  upon  the  thousand  forms  of  human  misery,  there 
is  a  gladness  in  our  deep  thanksgiving. 

A  year  goes  by  ;  but  it  leaves  no  added  shadow  on 
our  hearth-stone.  The  vines  clamber,  and  flourish : 
ihe  oaks  are  winning  age  and  grai  deur  :  little  Carry 


E  v  K  N  ING.  297 

is  blooming  into  the  pratty  coyness  of  girlhood  j  and 
Jamie  with  his  dark  hair,  and  flashing  eyes,  is  the 
pride  of  his  mother. 

There  is  no  alloy  to  pleasure,  but  the  remembrance 
of  poor  little  Paul.  And  even  that,  chastened  as  it 
is  with  years,  is  rather  a  grateful  memorial  that  our 
life  is  not  all  here,  than  a  grief  that  weighs  upon  our 
hearts. 

Sometimes,  leaving  little  Carry  and  Jamie  to  their 
play,  we  wander  at  twilight  to  the  willow  tree,  be 
neath  which  our  drowned  boy  sleeps  calmly,  for  the 
Great  Awaking.  It  is  a  Sunday,  in  the  week-day  of 
our  life,  to  linger  by  the  little  grave, — to  hang 
flowers  upon  the  head-stone,  and  to  breathe  a  prayer 
that  our  little  Paul  may  sleep  well,  in  the  arms  of 
Hi  111  who  loveth  children  ! 

And  her  heart,  and  my  heart,  knit  together  by  sor 
row,  as  they  had  been  knit  by  joy — a  silver  thread 
mingled  with  the  gold — follow  the  dead  one  to  the 
Land  that  is  before  us  ;  until  at  last  we  come  to 
reckon  the  boy,  as  living  in  the  new  home,  which 
when  this  is  old,  shall  be  ours  also.  And  my  spirit, 
speaking  to  his  spirit,  in  the  evening  watches,  seems 
to  say  joyfully — so  joyfully  that  the  tears  half  choke 
the  utterance — "  Paul,  my  boy,  we  will  be  there  /"' 

And  the  mother,  turning  hor  face  to  mine,  so  that 
I  see  th^  moistar"  in  her  eyo,  and  c.itch  its  heavenly 


298      REVERIES    OF    A    BACHELOR. 

look,  whispers  softly — so  softly,  that  an  angel  might 
have  said  it, — "  Yes,  dear,  we  will  be  THERE  !" 


The  night  had  now  come,  and  my  day  under  the 
oaks  was  ended.  But  a  crimson  belt  yet  lingered 
over  the  horizon,  though  the  stars  were  out. 

A  line  of  shaggy  mist  lay  along  the  surface  of  the 
brook.  I  took  my  gun  from  beside  the  tree,  and  my 
shot-pouch  from  its  limb,  and  whistling  for  Carlo — as 
if  it  had  been  Tray — I  strolled  over  the  bridge,  and 
down  the  lane,  to  the  old  house  under  the  elms. 

I  dreamed  pleasant  dreams  that  night ; for 

I  dreamed  that  my  Reverie  was  real. 


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